Alone
by Prolific Novice
Summary: "No one ever thinks they'll be alone, until they actually are. People think it should be filled with a soft-coloured sombre, a heavy pall of settled-silence because being alone must mean loneliness because they've never known any different. But they're wrong." ExB, Supernatural/Sci-Fi x Sadness.
1. Prologue

**Alone**

_**I like a look of Agony**_**,  
**_**because I know it's true.**_

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No one ever thinks they'll be alone, until they actually are.

People think it should be filled with a soft-coloured sombre, a heavy pall of settled-silence because being alone must mean _loneliness_ because they've never known any different.

But they're wrong.

I had grown up with noise, though not a surplus of it, until time started to pass and the noises – and people – gradually started to dissipate. They floated off like wisps of smoke, were gases suddenly deprived of their oxygen and so they just **vanished**.

At the time I couldn't tell – couldn't tell whether I was just shutting my ears to the vibrations until they became indistinct muffles or if, maybe, they just left all on their own. It could have been a mixture of both. Like a silent error of continuity: they cause each other but they have no original causes themselves.

I could have pin-pointed the origin to my mother's death. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, strange or mysterious. It was a car crash, and it was nobody's fault but her own. So if I had to blame someone it would have been her, and I couldn't blame her. Neither could Charlie. On the night of her death he'd just stood in the rain – it poured that night, I remember – and I think it was so I wouldn't have seen him crying.

She had been pregnant.

Anyway, the point is I _could_ have named this as the origin source, but I didn't. I was 15 when she had died, but I had been drifting away before that. But I do think that it made me silent, thought I couldn't – wouldn't – ever say she made me alone.

I'd like to think Charlie was alone too, but I don't know. He had lived a whole life with Renee – they had known each other since they were 17 – had always expected her to be there, couldn't fathom what it would be like when she was gone. When the house was so quiet because there wasn't any music to sing to and the oven accumulated dust because nobody baked anymore and the garden was overgrown and an all-over mess because no one cared enough to plant flowers.

So I don't know. But I think his too-much love for her may have shattered him. And now maybe he is lonely instead of just alone.

**_I'm sorry. I wish I could make it better. Tell me what to do._**

Things I want to say to him but are only ever fragmented thoughts in my head. Because I am not her, and we just don't speak anymore.

But we are fine, like most people. We carry on, like most people. And like most people sometimes are, we are alone.

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	2. Chapter 1: Lost

**Chapter 1– Lost  
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I wake up to the usual sound of the front door shutting oh-so quietly.

I crack my eyes open to look at the clock, more out of force of habit than anything else, as this was my every day, and his, for the past two years.

But still – _just after half-six._

I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. It's covered in those glow in the dark stars, you know the ones. The kind your parents put up for you when you're small, the kind that seem so magical at first. You wait for their glow to fizzle out but it never does.

Until the day that it **_does_**.

The sun hasn't stopped shining so you wonder why they've stopped glowing. But there doesn't seem to be an answer, so the only solution is to buy more, throw the old ones away.

But you keep them because it just doesn't seem fair.

When they were put up I wanted them all spread apart, so they covered the entirety of the ceiling. Now the empty space between them seems so lost. And I'm sort of regretful I did that, because maybe if they were closer together, they would have shined for longer.

Closing my eyes, I will sleep to come for a few moments more, but I know that it won't. So I get up and I start getting ready. Because it's just another day.

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It's raining when I step outside and the air is fresh and chilly; holding a frosty morning dew that coats my skin and hair. School is 30 minutes away by foot, and I always walk. I don't have a car because I can't drive, and I can't drive because I never wanted to learn.

But I don't mind the walk – like it, even. The cold air wakes me up and I like the sound of the rain, and the smell of it on the wet ground. The cars that pass are few and in-between, and the trees create a sort-of canopy overhead, like they're enveloping the whole wide world in their protective grasp.

So I smile as I walk, and I like the silence.

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School is the same as always.

Lessons pass and no one talks to me. Sometimes the teachers call on me and I have to repeat myself several times in order for them to hear what I'm saying. I'm not trying to talk quietly, but I just can't seem to help it.

At lunch I find an empty table and stare out of the large window next to me, stare at the swaying trees and the sheets of rain – the droplets falling down the window pane. The hubbub of noise around me blurs, as it always does, and I'm comfortable in my singularity as I take a bite of my sandwich – confident in the fact that no one is looking at me.

But then biology comes . . . and then something changes.

"Other bus," Mr Banner is saying, "other bus, other bus."

_Oh no._

My mind flashes back to last week. _Field trip_, I think. I had forgotten. I have a tendency to repress bad news. It just filters out as soon as it filters in, without any conscious effort on my part; my subconscious rids it before I even have a chance to register it. So of course I had forgotten. If I hadn't, I would have been ill today, would have missed school.

But I had _bloody forgotten. _

I know it will do no good asking to be excused now, and I don't want to draw any attention to myself. So like all the bad things, I try to repress the panic swelling up in my gut, my heart.

Mr Banner says, "Other bus."

And I go.

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I try not to look out of the window as the green whizzes past me; feeling the bus moving via the currents running up and down, up and down my body. I stare at my feet, my shoes, listen to the noise around me fade and blur.

When my heart starts to race and a queasy feeling rises up in my stomach, I drop my head – my chin touching my chest – and squeeze my eyes tight – right – shut.

"Bella."

I start at the sound of my name, unused to hearing it outside of school. I look up and meet dark, kind eyes, brimming with a sort of sympathy that doesn't seem like sympathy at all – without the sting of pity, more understanding.

"Are you okay?"

I try my best to smile, but it's probably more of a grimace. "I'm fine," I say, but quietly. "Angela." Because I think she used to be my best friend. "Just . . . " I trail off, my voice wavering a little, and then shrug my shoulders like I don't know.

The corner of her mouth lifts, but her eyes dip. And then she nods like she _does_ know.

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Students spill out of the bus to enter another enclosed space – somewhere so warm and filled with verdant green.

I'm so relieved to be off the bus that I forget for a moment. I stand stock-still on the pavement, the last to step off the bus. Kids are clumped around in small groups – talking, gesturing, and laughing.

As I stare at them I feel something cold touch my chest, like a raindrop on my heart. I look down but there's nothing. And when I look back up it only grows colder.

Right before Mr Banner starts ushering us in, Angela catches my gaze. She's stood with a boy just a bit shorter than her and a girl with mad hair. The boy is gesturing wildly, and the girl has her arms crossed. I think she might roll her eyes.

Angela takes a step and I look away.

And then Mr Banner shouts and claps his hands. And he saves my day.

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I hang back from the collective – uncomfortable and lost in too-big groups of people.

As we walk on and Mr Banner drones on, I survey all the plants I pass. I like greenery – always have. It has a way of making me feel at ease as singularity and rain do.

My fingertips hesitate at a sharp, serrated leaf edge. But when I touch it it's smooth and soft, and not at all like its outwards demeanour suggests.

I like it.

So surreptitiously, I pluck the leaf from the dying flower – its orange petals bridled with holes, and withering – and pocket it.

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At around 12:30, the group disperses for lunch. Some people line up to the tiny canteen, while others pull out food-filled tupperware from their bags. The sun is shining – a rarity – so people spread out among the wooden benches; unzipping coats and smiling.

I stand at the edge of the fray, feeling the darkness of the encroaching wood touch my skin. It's so close that if I took a single step to the right I would be lost amid a myriad of verdant green foliage; lush and sparkling in the sporadic sun.

So I do just that.

I am suddenly hidden, though through the dense growth I still see everything.

For a moment I just pause, chewing on my lip as I turn my head this way and that. It is much brighter than I had anticipated now that I'm inside, like a snowflake incognito; shadowed by a falling blackness that is just sky, halfway hiding it like a perception filter.

Their laughter reaches my ears, breaks through the overlaps of the leaves on the trees – dents the otherwise quiet air. So I merge deeper in, thinking but not really. My mind empties – I let rationality flee. I'm alone again, suddenly, and I'm amazed at how easy it was to be so. Wonder if it _should_ be so easy.

But no matter. As I wander I spy an innumerable amount of colour and variation. Though I don't pick anything, like I did the bemusing leaf. Everything here is so _alive_; I think it would be a shame to snap it in two.

Time passes as it usually does . . . but also not quite, not for me. I notice the sky darkening quicker, the light fading. Like the world is just a tiny speck on a nostalgic item somewhere that's having the lid closed on it once more. But I'm not panicking. I'm not.

That's before I actually_ do start panicking. _

I fumble my phone out of my pocket, lighting up the screen.

**_4:15._ **

And then I gape. Because I've been gone for almost _four hours._

I shoot a nervous look behind me; the place around me not looking quite so friendly in the oncoming dark. I had been mindlessly walking, following the dips and twists and turns of the forest, not making my own. I don't want to say the 'L' word, but rationality has come again, and it's hitting me like a heart attack.

_**I'm lost.**_

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_**A/N: Thanks for reading! Sorry about the wait. Up next: Edward. :-)**_


	3. Chapter 2: Memories in an Empty Place

**Chapter 2 - Memories in an Empty Place**

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**I'll be still lost **

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I'll be still lost **

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I'll be still lost . . .  
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I stood on the edge of the world, watching the light fade from the sky.

A lump formed in my throat as my feet mindlessly travelled. I had the distinct feeling I was going in circles, around and around until I stood stock-still, feeling a strange wave of vertigo crash over me.

I closed my eyes then – the voluntary, momentary oblivion so much more comforting than the one I was unable to control.

The thing about darkness is, is that never anything truly _is_. There is always a streetlamp on a quiet road or a blinking aeroplane in a midnight sky or even glowing stars on a dark ceiling. You're never truly alone or vulnerable really, as long as there is light.

But here in this so-dark wood it's strange . . . when the light leaves the sky everywhere around me is suddenly flooded with a pitch so dark it feels like its clambering inside of me and shutting off any inside glow I might still have left.

I think I know how to be alone, and maybe I do, but the dark makes me feel _lonely_. A lost that kind-of aches at your heart until it feels like its tearing in two.

A lost that reminds you of _loss_.

I stumble over brambles and branches until it feels like my lungs have forgotten how to take a proper breath. I take quick, shallow pants that echo in my ears, and I try to ignore the ever-rising panic – starting off in my stomach, wrapping its ivy around my heart before it seizes my throat.

I taste thorns and I fall.

I press my face into the leaves of the forest floor trying to think, trying to be calm. The light has gone. I'm on my own.

This would have been fine, if only the sky was still bright.

I lie there for a minute, wallowing and not panicking until something occurs to me.

_My phone._

For a brief moment a spark rattles through me. I sit upright and shakily pull the phone out of my pocket, suddenly grateful that Charlie had bought me one, despite my insistence it would be pointless.

I click a button and the screen lights up, illuminating my face in its glow. A small ripple – not quite a wave – of relief washes through me at the sight of the tiny pixelated screen and its artificial glow. I check the battery and it's full, and a little relived laugh bubbles out of my chest.

_Thank god. _

I go to call Charlie, but of course –

_No signal._

My lip becomes a chew-toy between my teeth as I stare, illuminated and lost. With trepidation I glance up, not quite retaining the shiver that ripples through me; cold and quiet and much too covered up, like it has a secret it doesn't want to share.

I stand up, holding the phone out in front of me like a torch. I can't just wait here, though I know that maybe I should. Maybe I should stay where I am so I don't wander any further. Maybe I should stay where I am, under a prelude or pretense of pretend and safety. Or a pretend _of_ safety.

But I can't.

I am, in a word, _scared_.

So I run until I find the light.

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_It was in the middle of the night when it happened._

_I was in that in-between space that isn't really sleep but which isn't fully consciousness, either. The glow from the ceiling was just dim spots behind my eyelids and the house was so quiet that I heard every drop of rain dripping down my window, splashing on the sill._

_Drowsiness was such a wonderful feeling when you were allowed to give in to it._

_But then I remember being jostled, being pulled from my state by invading arms into the cold air. I made noises of protest but the arms didn't listen. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had picked me up like that. Everything was still quiet when I was buckled into the passenger seat, and though I could hear it I never saw it until I opened my eyes at last._

_I had seen my dad's eyes look like that before – red and oh-so full. But I'd never seen the brimming turn into a waterfall – until that night._

_I didn't ask where we were going, couldn't speak because it suddenly felt like there was a tennis ball being stuffed down my throat. So I sat there, feeling raw and empty and afraid of the strange silence, feeling so much younger than fifteen. _

_When we arrived at the hospital, something in my stomach twisted, making me feel sick. I stared up at the tall building, glowing almost ominously in the evening dark, and felt the lump in my throat double in size. Charlie sat beside me, as still as stone for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly it looked as if it might snap in half, or crumble into dust. Into nothing._

_His red eyes rolled towards me once, I thought – filled with dread. _

_Once inside, Charlie sat me in a steel chair in the waiting room and walked up to the reception desk a little ways away. His hands shook as he walked, I noticed, so he balled them into fists and shoved them into his pockets. Looking down, I saw my own hands trembling and followed his example._

_It was so bright, too bright, the light lurid and unwelcoming. So I closed my eyes against them. Against the coughing and muffled crying and the tap tap tap of the keys at the desk. I wished I could shut my ears against all of it too._

_When I opened my eyes a little later, Charlie stood above me. I jumped, a little bit startled, my heart hammering at the exhausted look in his eyes. But then he smiled, all artifice and pain, and offered his hand to me. "Come on," he said. _

_And so I went._

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The darkness carries on until its full, fit to bursting its constraints in the sky to overtake the land it blankets every night.

I'm not sure what keeps me going. I stumble over branches many times yet my feet always find purchase again. Things brush against my skin, sometimes my cheeks, sometimes my hands. Maybe leaves or gnats – it's too dark to tell. And there's a dreadful wind that chaps at my nose and lips, hollowing sorrowfully as it does so.

But my feet keep on going, though they know not where. There's a tight urgency in my chest, something akin to something I've felt before, and I just know that whatever I do, I mustn't stop. I _can't_ stop. Because it's always so much harder to start again. _I'll just keep walking_, I decide, my thoughts rattling about, my feet treading quickly to stem the fear, _I'll just keep walking until dawn, and then I'll find my way, and then I'll rest._

I repeat this mantra, over and over to myself, imagining it like a drum beat thumping in tandem with the rhythm of my heart.

My thoughts flitter to Charlie almost obsessively, the worry he may be feeling gnawing at my gut until I'm left with a deep ache, a deep hollow. I try to swipe at his image in my mind, but he persists, and all I can see are his eyes, red as they were before, ringed and raw with pain.

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and dig my nails into my palms.

But I keep on walking.

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Like so many things, the night persists.

Living in the quiet little town of Forks, nestled deep within trees and all things green, I was used to being encroached on all sides by the dark. Even in the summer months, the light still seemed to arrive late and leave early, like it was so tired of our tiny town.

The evening is peaceful and calm, usually a respite from forced niceties in stilted social situations. I liked it . . . but only when I was safe _from_ it.

It had gotten colder.

And it had started to rain.

Just mere spatters, splashing silently on the crown of my head, my cheek.

Rain was another thing I liked; the smell of it, the sound of it on the roof tiles. But getting soaked to the bone would only worsen my situation, which would happen if it turned torrential, and it would. Because this was Forks. And it never seemed to do anything by halves – least of all bad weather.

I sighed as I tilted my face up to the sky. It was sliced into a million pieces by the branches hanging overhead, but droplets of cold water rolled down waxy leaves to meet me. I closed my eyes. It was cold on the back of my eyelids and on my nose, and I was cold, but it felt good anyway.

It felt like a sort of peaceful presence.

Like company.

But then the wind blew again, and I shuddered despite myself. I opened my eyes and turned to move my head, but not before my eyes caught something in the sky.

I did a double take, my eyes squinting and then widening. But then I blinked again, and it was gone.

_It looked sort of like . . . sort of like . . . _

I shook my head, refusing to even consider it. Instead I turned until I was looking straight ahead, and quickened my step.

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_I stood at the bottom of the hospital bed, staring at someone whom my eyes didn't recognise, though my heart did._

_Bruised and battered, and tethered to the ground by so many tubes threaded into her veins, lay my mother. Idly, and as distraction from the seizing forming around my heart, I thought how much she'd hate that – being stuck in this place, in any place._

_I wanted her to get up._

_To pull the tubes out._

_To run away if she had to. _

_Just to be anywhere but here._

_My eyes lifted to Charlie. His were on mom, his hand hovering over her papery cheek like if he touched her, she might tear. His eyes were wide and wet when he raised them to mine. And the next words out of his mouth made my heart quiver, matching the ones trembling on his lips._

"_Say goodbye, Bella."_

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The wind tore at my eyes, and the rain water rolled down my cheeks until I couldn't tell my tears and nature apart. They mingled together, like merging clouds, blotting out any clarity of bright sunlight or a shining moon.

I deflated as the night passed. The rain lost its novelty, the pretence of peace it offered only ever fleeting. I grew colder, in more ways than one, and without the light I was only left with the pain. I wanted a sunny distraction, but all I had was a prevailing night.

But still.

My feet carried me on.

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_I stared at him for so long that everything else seemed to blur and fade away. All I saw were his eyes. They made everything seem so surreal. _

Too much.

"_I don't want to," I whispered, my lips trembling, my voice a strangled warble. At my answer his eyes grew sadder, _stranger_._

"_No." I spoke this time with a deeper resolve. This wasn't real, this wasn't real._

_**This wasn't real.**_

"_Bella," he spoke softly, his voice so strained. "Please."_

_I had to look away from his eyes, pleading with me to do something he should never be asking of me. I couldn't. _I wouldn't.

_**Anything but goodbye.**_

_I crept around to the side of the bed, my eyes fastening on her hands, her arms, any part which wasn't shielded by the blanket covering her. She had never looked so _small_ . . . so swallowed up by the world. _

_I watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and as I took her hand I felt the pulse in her wrist. She was okay. She was alive. She wasn't . . . going anywhere._

_Slowly lowering myself into the chair next to her bed, I leaned forward and rested my head on the pillow next to hers. Her face was turned towards me, and up this close she looked so much more . . . hurt._

_But alive._

_Still so alive._

"_I'm here," I whispered to her sleeping form. "Everything's gonna be alright now. You'll see."_

_I fell asleep with my forehead pressed against hers._

_But despite my words, tears forced their way past my lids, pouring like blood from a weeping wound._

_._

_._

_._

After hours of wandering, I finally came to a standstill.

My feet paused before my eyes widened.

A large house was nestled into the woods, looking more forest than it did brick work. It was still dark, but I could make out the ivy climbing up the walls, the large trees swaying on either side of it and twitching grass, so long that it brushed my thighs as I walked through it, spread all around it, making it seem as though it had grown out of the land.

I gaped before a swell of relief tore through my chest, and my legs hurried me on to my sudden safe haven.

When I reached the door, a bout of trepidation abruptly made itself known.

I knocked, hesitantly, but no one answered. I knocked again, more forcefully this time, but again, silence greeted my request.

With my hand on the knob, I turned it, half expecting it to be locked.

It wasn't.

I half pushed the door open, wondering if I really wanted to do this. Even with the pelting of rain and unforgiving wind, it still felt wrong to trespass.

I guess being the daughter of a cop had instilled me with strong moral principles, even in times wherein self-preservation was screaming at me.

I turned back to look behind me, even though the rain was so heavy that it was hard to open my eyes properly. Suddenly, the forest was alight, however brief, as a bolt of lightning sliced through the air. I was afforded a view of the massing greenery, suddenly looking so looming, so _threatening, _that the fine hairs all over my body stood on end. A rumble of thunder rattled the air soon after . . . and I was inside before I could talk myself out of it.

"Okay," I whispered, my heart in my throat, my legs like jelly. Then I took two steps forward.

And promptly collapsed where I stood.

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**When you come **

***  
When will you come**

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To look for me . . .**

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	4. Chapter 3: Something Unexpected

**Chapter 3 – Something Unexpected  
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Edward brooded.

He perched in a tree overlooking his house, his fingers steepled underneath his chin as he thought.

The last thing he ever expected to happen actually _had_ happened, and he was in a state of denial about it, though he would never admit this to himself. Instead he chose to reflect on the incident which had occurred mere hours ago, only feet away from where he was sitting.

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_Edward let his fingers dance upon the ivory keys, playing too softly for any but his own kind to hear. He didn't like the brash, loud sounds of this world, and silence came so much easier to him. So he played quietly, letting himself enjoy one of the things that earth could offer him._

_It was another tumultuous day . . . or night he supposed, briefly lifting his gaze to glance out of the window. It always seemed to be raining here, or storming, or hailing. The rumble of thunder off in the distance sent a twinge of irritation down his spine. _Always so noisy_, he thought. Not for the first time, he wished he could tone down the efficiency of his hearing._

_He could almost hear Jasper in his head, laughing at him. He was always dismissing Edward's less than jovial moods with a flick of his hand, a rolling of his eyes. He couldn't seem to understand why Edward hated earth so much, when Jasper was having the opposite experience. What Edward found repulsive, Jasper found delightful, annoyances were quirks and irritations were delights that should be appreciated, not snubbed._

_Edward usually left then, liking his solitary considerably more than Jasper's misplaced enthusiasm._

_It didn't matter though. In just a month all of this would be over. He would say goodbye to earth with all the enthusiasm of Jasper's he could muster, confident in the assurance that he would never have to set eyes on it ever again._

_Almost smiling at the prospect of returning home, Edward's fingers glided faster over the keys, his hands just a quick blur of movement. He could hear the rustle of the trees outside and the pelting of rain on the windows, saw the quick flash of lightning that lit up the room and felt the thunder resound in his bones, but for a moment it all faded away as an overwhelming surge of pure _relief_ washed over him._

_**Soon.**_

_It was short lived, however._

_A loud _bang_ echoed in his ears, and his fingers abruptly stopped moving. _

_He didn't need to strain his ears to hear any better; he heard the whispered _okay_ clear enough._

_Edward froze. There was a human inside of his house._

_He stared blankly at the piano keys in front of him for a moment, uncomprehending. He wasn't equipped to deal with a situation like his . . . to deal with a human._

_So when he finally became animated again, his movements were stilted and rough, so unlike the motions of grace that were otherwise second nature to him. He rose to his feet slowly, at the same time he heard the human's move forward – once, twice – and then stop._

_The relief that had previously filled up his chest was replaced with a surge of dread. His feet wouldn't move. He contemplated simply staying where he was until the human vacated his residence. They had to leave at some point, surely? And what did it matter if they didn't, anyway? He would be gone in a month._

_But then irritation replaced the dread, so thick and hot that he felt his skin blaze with the ensuing heat. He didn't want this human in his home, soiling and tainting his last month. He was certainly eager to leave this place behind, but it was if suddenly all of his rage against the primitive species came swelling up, leaving behind only a dam of repulsion. _

This human had no right,_ he thought. And he wanted them gone._

_Now._

_So with a temper as black as the night outside, he forced his feet to move and strode from the room. He was on the other side of the house, but his steps were still inherently silent. He glided over the wooden floors, stirring only dust particles in his wake. His intention had been to scare the intruder away; with his mood as it was it would have been so easy. But when he neared the entrance hall, he stopped._

_He just _stopped_._

_And then immediately, he was up in the rafters._

_From there, he stared down at the crumpled figure on the floor. Even in the dark, his adept eyes were able to see the human so clearly. _

_He didn't know what he'd expected to see . . . but it wasn't this._

_They were so _small_. That was the first thing he noticed. Now, he was no expert on humans in any capacity, but in the many years he'd been around he hadn't gotten by without seeing any humans before. They were littered all over the earth, crawling on every surface likes billions of ants, so it was an inevitability. But he hadn't realised they were so . . . _small_. _

_This human looked positively miniature curled up like that, like some of the young offspring he'd seen before. A child._

_Though he supposed most of them were children compared to him. _

_The second thing he noticed was the hair. Long, so long, it spiralled down the humans legs they were currently hugging. He wasn't sure why his eyes kept trailing up and down the long, brown strands. Perhaps because they seemed to be hiding everything else._

Hiding from what?_ He thought._

_Then he noticed the shaking._

_The human's shoulders were shuddering, getting more forceful the longer he watched. He tilted his head to the side, trying to observe the figure from every angle._

Why?_ He wondered. _Is this something that they do? A defence mechanism against possible threats?

_He thought that if this was the case, then it wasn't a very good one. If anything, the trembling only served in making the human seem . . . _

_He wasn't sure._

_But he definitely didn't feel threatened._

_In fact, he found he didn't feel much of anything. All of that earlier dread and rage had fizzled out, leaving him feeling strangely . . . empty. _

_He felt hollow._

_His fingers gripped the rafters tightly, but still, he watched the human._

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"Having your habitual sulk?"

Edward was pulled out of his musings by Jasper, who suddenly appeared on the branch next to him. He scowled at his friend.

"Celestial beings don't sulk, Jasper," he said irritably, before he lifted his wings and disappeared from sight.

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**A/N: So . . . thoughts? Did we see that coming? **

**That isn't the end of the flashback, just so you know. Jasper just got impatient and interrupted.  
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**See you soon!**


	5. Chapter 4: She?

**A/N: The title of this chapter obviously relates to its content... but it's also a bit of a shout out to a fic I'm reading at the moment which is breaking my heart a little bit. It's called _She_ (go figure) by GemmaH. So if angst is your thing, rec rec rec all over that.  
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**Now, back to Edward... **

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**Chapter 4 _– She?_  
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Once back inside the house, Edward's wings flapped gently in an attempt to rid themselves of the rain which had dampened them so. Meanwhile, his eyes were focused on the stairs, and his mind, on the human who slept so soundly on the second floor.

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_After watching her shoulders shake for so long in curiosity, he was almost startled when the shudders stopped altogether. His fingers gripped the wood tighter, his body leaning forward as he waited to see what they would do next._

_The empty feeling hadn't left him. If anything, it had grown worse. But he let it merely linger on his peripheral, ignoring it instead of the human below him. That should have made him pause for thought then, but he found himself feeling too . . . strange. _

_He found he couldn't help himself._

_So he watched, and he waited, and he tried not to wonder why._

_His eyes widened as the human suddenly started to lean – no, topple – forwards. His head tilted, and tilted, as he watched their position change. For a moment it looked as though they were going to embrace the floor, but at the last minute, and in a motion so graceless he almost flinched back at the clumsiness of it, the human tipped over onto their side. _

_He stared, confounded, as a muffled _thump_ reached his ears._

_Why had they done that?_

_More than slightly baffled – _humans were so strange_ – he studied the still figure in confusion. He knew the basic mechanisms of the human body; what it required to live and such… so he thought back._

_The words sprung to his mind as if he'd been keeping them close all this time._

Food_, he thought, then looked again. Clearly, that wasn't right. _

_He shook his head and thought again._

Water_. No, it couldn't be that. It was pouring outside, after all._

Sunlight?_ He wasn't sure that was a necessity… and all humans would have been used to the hours the night claimed anyway. So it couldn't be that._

Sleep_ . . . _

_Sleep. _

_Human's needed rest otherwise their bodies wouldn't function properly. Edward saw this as a huge flaw. With all the threat that the earth posed, it seemed quite a dangerous way to spend their time. But it was just something else to further separate his kind and theirs._

_He had a long list of the differences, in fact._

_So they were . . . sleeping?_

_He wondered if that's why they had been shaking earlier. Perhaps it was an indicator that the body would be shutting down soon, like a sort of forewarning._

_So quietly, and with little effort, he let go of the wood beneath his fingers and allowed himself to fall. His landing was silent, more silent even than the human who slept, whose breath shuddered out on the exhale, and dipped on the inhale, like it was causing their body great exertion to perform an automatic function._

So noisy,_ his thoughts repeated. _Even in their sleep.

_He didn't move any closer for a minute, instead opting to observe the human from this angle. They were turned on their side, facing away from him, so mostly all he saw was all that hair again. He kept staring at it, but felt a twinge of irritation at the fact that they were still hiding from him._

_Another defence mechanism, perhaps? Shrugging, he took a step closer, another, and then another until he stood over the small human, who still looked small even as close as he was._

_A pang suddenly hit his stomach. The empty, hollow feeling that had been hanging at the edges of his peripheral suddenly decided to make itself known again. It echoed from there, crawling up his body like the ivy that had ensnared the house, and creeping all the way down until his feet felt tethered to the floor – as if he'd sprouted roots._

_He felt himself quite unable to move._

_Frowning, he looked down at his own body, like the feeling might have stemmed from an outside source. But everything looked as it always did._

_His gaze flittered to the human._

_Well, perhaps something _was_ different. But he couldn't connect the two. The human couldn't be making him feel like this, it just didn't make any sense._

_Shaking his head, he tried to push the feeling away, but it was growing stronger._

_He thought about seeking out Jasper for a moment. He loved humans, so surely this was much for his forte than Edward's. But then that thought was pushed away quickly enough –_ with too much ease, which he would contemplate later – _and replaced with the one which had become his go-to answer in understanding the human._

Defence mechanism.

_Clearly, he had underestimated their abilities to protect themselves in their sleep, where they were at their most vulnerable. They must have been using a sought of thought transference (or telepathy) to deter any possible threats – using it even against a superior being such as himself. For a minute, he was almost impressed._

_So kneeling down – still staring at all that hair (which he could now tell was quite wet) – he pondered the juxtaposition between how the human looked, to how they may actually _be_. _

Quite dangerous_, he thought, staring at the human with new interest._

_Now to him, though. This mild discomfort he could shake easily, certainly, despite the pangs that surged up as the thought flittered through his mind. He was sure it would wear off soon._

_They were still only a mere human, after all._

_Creeping closer, his hand hesitated, hovering above the damp strands. He had an alarming moment of perspective then, allowing himself to see how peculiar his actions right then were. Only some moments ago he had been swarming with rage and repulsion, and now he was very nearly touching the human. _

_But then the moment was gone as he reasoned it couldn't be peculiar. He had never been this close to a human before, so his new reactions could have been perfectly plausible. _

_This was enough for him._

_His fingers touched the human's hair._

All that hair.

_It was strange for a moment as his fingers adjusted to the feel – at complete odds with the last thing he'd touched, which had been the wooden rafters. This was a flurry of things all compacted into one. It was wet and cold, and it was smooth and soft. And it made him lean a bit closer as his fingers lost themselves in the mass, stroking the strands along the wooden floor to see how far they would unravel._

_It turned out they went quite far._

_He was pulled from his fun when the human shuddered again. He froze, his fingers stilling in their activity as he waited for . . . something. His heart had quickened its pace for some reason, and his insides panged again, coinciding quite exactly with the humans movement._

_He watched as they curled up tighter, dragging their body in on itself._

_Hiding._

_He frowned as the strands crawled back along the floor, away from him. _

_His understanding that it was a gesture of self-preservation did nothing to soothe the tingle of annoyance spiking throughout his body._

_He _really_ wanted them to stop doing that._

_So with a scowl, he decided to just go straight to the crux of the problem. With loud footsteps which, incidentally, he was quite capable of not making (though they would have still sounded like a light tread to human ears), he stepped around to the other side._

_He let himself shrink down onto his knees again._

_Curiously, he tilted his head to side as he regarded the human. His quick eyes took an initial analysis of their face – as he was accustomed to doing with all things – and then, strangely, paused._

_And then he looked more slowly, his eyes gliding leisurely over their features rather than assessing them as simply a face, and nothing more than a face._

_His eyes widened at his actions, at his inability to stop._

_But mostly just at the human._

_They were . . . _

_He didn't know._

_But something in his stomach twisted in response._

_But they were in fact . . . _

They_ were a _she_._

_Vaguely, he recalled his recollection of humans, and even vaguer still, he recalled his recollection of the female gender._

_But he knew little._

_And not only had he never seen a human up this close before, he had also never seen a female up this close before, either._

_His head spun. He was doubly confused, and admittedly, doubly fascinated._

_Perhaps that's why he'd been so intrigued by their – _her_ (he mentally corrected himself) hair. He'd never seen hair as long as hers before._

_He slunk down a little more._

_His eyes remained fastened tightly to her face, observing all the differences he found there from his own. Her eyebrows were thinner, her nose, smaller, and her cheeks and jaw looked so _soft_ in comparison to his own sharp angles._

_His eyes drifted downwards. Her lips were . . ._

_Blue?_

_He blinked quickly._

Blue?_ He thought again._

_That didn't seem right._

_Frowning once more, he lifted his hand, but didn't hesitate this time before his thumb touched her bottom lip._

Cold_, was his immediate reaction._

_Something flickered in the back of his brain, like a memory or a warning, or a combination of the two. He concentrated hard, listening to the sound of synapses snapping together as he tried to bring the information forward._

_When it dawned on him, he closed his eyes in irritation at himself._

_It wasn't sunlight._

_It was heat._

_Human bodies were tricky. They couldn't be exposed to too much heat or too much cold. An extreme at either spectrum would cause eventual death._

_His eyes flew back open, assessing the water drenching her hair, her clothes. His fingers moved to her cheeks, her forehead, crept down even to feel her hands._

_The dread that had filled his chest earlier came back two-fold. He felt his own temperature drop, his skin becoming icy in response to her own._

Too cold,_ he thought._

_Much too cold._

_His stomach gave a wordless pang of agreement._

_With only that feeling of dreadful dismay coating his insides like thick tar, he quickly – but gently – lifted the human into his arms, spread out his wings, and flew up the flight of stairs._

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* * *

**A/N: So there you go. I like writing Edward because he's a strange mixture of arrogance and cluelessness... it's amusing to write (which is why I'm dragging the flashback out over a few chapters) so I hope it's fun to read!**

**Up next: more Edward, and then we'll hear from Bella again. :)**

**Thank you for the subscribes/favourites/reviews. (And a special thanks to _SunflowerFran_ for pimping this story out on fb!) They make me smile. :)**

**See you soon!**


	6. Chapter 5: A Waiting Game

**Chapter 5 _– _A Waiting Game  
**

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Edward only paused for a moment before he flew up the stairs, his large wings spanning outwards and then drawing in quicker as he gained speed. He could hear her slow, even breaths that he safely assumed meant she slept soundly, but he was still rather anxious about leaving her alone.

He had been gone for only ten minutes, feeling that he needed to think. But the dread had come back when his mind had wandered down a dangerous path, one which he refused to even contemplate.

The human would be a safe and easy (because his mind wouldn't stop tumbling over her) distraction . . . even though she was the one leading him down said unthinkable dangerous path.

If he could just focus on her and his intrigue _for_ her . . . then his mind wouldn't be able to wonder about anything else.

His wings spanned out once before fluttering closed against his back. He landed silently on his feet in front of the bedroom door.

He did not hesitate to open it.

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_Edward knew where he was going._

_Without conscious thought he sought out the one room he knew had a fireplace in it. He had never had a reason to use it before, but suddenly he felt so indebted to it. It would have been humorous – feeling so beholden to an inanimate object – in any other situation. But he felt her ice all over him; his chest burning cold where her nose rubbed against him. And the panic swelled up inside of him and restricted his ribcage to the point of pain._

_There was nothing funny in this circumstance._

_Once inside the room, he quickly laid her down on the bed before haphazardly throwing logs of wood onto the fireplace. His hands moved fast as he rubbed two sticks together, fire flickering to life in a matter of seconds. Stoking it and helping it along, it was blazing in just under five minutes._

_It would have been done quicker, if only his hands hadn't been shaking._

_Fear made him clumsy._

_Darting back to the bedside at a speed that would have made human eyes dizzy, he knelt down once more. Carefully lifting her, he drew back the duvet and then tucked it up until it covered all but her face. He could feel the room around him warming already, and hoped she could too._

_He stared wide eyed at the human as the seconds ticked by, holding his breath, waiting._

_But still, she shook._

_And her lips stayed blue._

_Why? He thought, trying to push back the panic so he might think of something useful._

_He trailed his hands all over her face, searching for . . . something. The tips of his fingers brushed her hair and he froze._

_For the second time that night, he wanted to yell at himself for being so dense._

_She was _still wet.

_Letting out a growl of annoyance at himself, he abruptly ripped off the duvet and gathered her into his arms again. He stroked her face quietly before his hand moved downwards and he unzipped her coat._

_He held her against his chest as he pulled her arms out of the sodden material, scowling inwardly at how moronic he'd been. Once removed, he threw the coat across the room and felt the shirt covering her, but it was wet, too._

_His nimble fingers made quick work of the buttons of the baggy shirt covering her, manoeuvring her body the same as when he'd removed the coat. Once that had joined the coat, he checked the next layer. This one was only damp at the top – perhaps where the coat and shirt had failed to cover – but he didn't want to take any chances, so that one came off, too._

_Once that was done, he found that there were no more layers of clothing left. He pressed a hand against her stomach; it was clammy and cold, but not wet._

_Relieved, he moved onto her jeans. He gently laid her upper body on the bed as he unzipped them. He then proceeded to pull them off her legs as smoothly as if he was removing silk, not wet denim._

_He touched her calf, her thigh. _

_Cold, but not wet._

_Not wanting to waste any time, he quickly bundled her up after that. He wrapped the duvet around her before he stood with her in his arms._

_Impatient waiting for the fire to reach them, he instead went to the fire._

_He pulled the chair that rested unused in the corner of the room close to the flames, wanting the human to be level with the heat. He sat down and held her tightly, his hands periodically stroking her face to feel if she was getting any warmer. He shot a worried glance at her hair. It wasn't as wet as it had been, but still, that couldn't be helping._

_He gathered the dark strands into one hand and squeezed any of the excess water out. Only a few droplets dribbled out, which meant it wasn't withholding that much water anymore. He touched the crown of her head and found it almost dry, which momentarily relieved him. He then draped the rest of her hair over the arm of the chair, so the wet wouldn't touch her neck and make her colder._

_And then he waited._

_._

_._

_._

Stepping inside the now very warm room, he crept silently to the side of the bed where the human now lay. Dropping to his knees almost immediately and always soundlessly, his wide eyes surveyed her face.

She looked even better than she had only ten minutes ago. Her cheeks were now flushed a bright red colour, matching the darkened hue of her lips, and her breath seemed to flow much more easily in and out of her lungs. Whereas before it had sounded like an effort, it now sounded like an aid to relaxation.

His own breath sighed out of him, his body melting against the bed as his skin started to warm.

.

.

.

_It took a short while, but eventually the human's temperature started to regulate._

_His hand buzzed when he made his periodic sweep of her face again, for the first time feeling warmth under her skin. His rapt eyes watched in fascination as the blue tinge to her lips started to fade, replaced by a pale pink that seemed to be darkening by the second. Her face lost some of its chalky pallor, and even her breathing seemed to get looser, easier._

_He stared. It was like watching an insentient being suddenly becoming animated._

_He was quite enraptured by this human._

_The thought fluttered through his head before he could filter it, but now that it had he couldn't take it back. Instead, he pushed it to the back of his mind and stored it in a box that read _'Later.'

_For now, he just wanted to look._

_He ran his finger along her nose, the soft curve of her cheek. He wondered at how she had not stirred throughout any of this. Was it only the cold? Or were all humans so immune to external forces when they slept? His fingers traced the dark circles beneath her eyes, and something in him told him that maybe she was just tired._

_Just so tired._

_The pang inside of him hit him deeply, and this time he couldn't ignore it._

_Wincing, he pulled her more tightly against his chest, and even though he didn't want to, stood up and placed her oh-so carefully back in the bed. He tucked her in, watched her warm up even more before he stepped away, and walked from the room, feeling heavy._

_He closed the door behind himself quietly, and then he fled._

_He needed to think._

_._

_._

_._

His thinking had only troubled him, and Jasper's abrupt appearance had given him a good excuse to leave. Although logically he knew he should have stayed. His friend went on and on about the delights of the earth and its people any time they were together, and Edward suddenly regretted tuning him out more often than not.

Why he just wouldn't tell him what had occurred was no mystery. For one, he knew that after years of showing nothing but distaste for the humans, to suddenly find himself so intrigued by one would be something Jasper would never let him live down.

He would be even more unbearable.

But of course it was more than that. His sudden reticence couldn't be explained by something so near to the surface.

He felt strangely . . . protective.

He wouldn't let himself tread too deeply into those waters though. The feeling floated around, abstract and ambiguous. But he just knew he wasn't ready to share this yet . . . whatever _this_ was.

Bringing himself back to the here and now, Edward pushed aside all his troubling thoughts – which was surprisingly easy to do.

He leaned closer to the human, his chin on the mattress, his eyes on her flushed skin. When her breath brushed across his face, he blinked.

And something inside of him felt a little less hollow.

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* * *

**A/N: That's the end of Edward's POV for now... we'll be back with Bella next chapter.**

**In the meantime, let me know what you think! (If you fancy)  
**

**See you (more than likely) tomorrow! **


	7. Chapter 6: Waking Up

**Chapter 6 – Waking Up**

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Dreams are a funny thing.

No matter how out of the ordinary they are – like talking frying pans or being best friends with your favourite celebrity – they always appear so genuine in that moment. You're thrilled and happy, or maybe just a little bit weirded out. You don't realise you need to wake up until you do. And when your eyes _do_ open, you find yourself wishing you could go back into the dream, because it's kind of better, or more appealing, than your reality.

I didn't have those kinds of dreams anymore.

So I think it was this – the absence of nightmares – which woke me.

My eyes opened slowly, in complete contrast to my heart which felt as though it was trying to beat out of my chest. My blood felt thick and my body felt heavy; a kind of drowsy that's like a drug, lulling you into a soft, sweet slumber.

But this wasn't right.

_This wasn't right._

I felt my eyebrows draw together as I frowned, confusion like a myriad of colours flickering over the back of my closed eyelids. I slept, but not like this. Never like this.

_Never so easily._

Blinking the blur from my eyes, I felt the slow intake of my breath as I stared up at the ceiling – like it was something so beyond my control . . . and it felt _good_ that it was. For a while I just let myself lie and breathe, clinging on to the fog in my mind like it would stay forever if I held on tightly enough.

But everything is always in a period of motion and change.

My eyes closed again when the fog dissipated.

_Nothing is forever._

My breath shuddered out of me that time, and the inhale left me wanting. When my eyes snapped open again, my hands relaxed, letting go of the sheets they were previously clutching.

_Just another day,_ I think.

I look down, then look back up. But it takes me a moment for me to register the omission.

_My stars._

_Where are they?_

The coloured confusion that previously swallowed up the space behind my eyelids suddenly bleeds into my vision, only this time it's a pale grey – colder. The ceiling above me is plain and white, devoid of all my little faded stars. I lean up on my elbows, squinting at the space above me like it might be a trick of the light . . . but they never reappear.

Perturbed, I pull myself into a sitting position, pulling my eyes downwards.

_These aren't my sheets._

The ones currently covering me are a deep red colour, so dark it's almost burgundy.

Mine are purple.

My hands pull at the dark duvet, feeling how thick it is, how soft. I turn around to look at the pillow behind me and find it's the same colour.

Then I lift my head up and – it's _definitely_ not a trick of the light.

My throat closes up as I observe the room around me. It's more than twice the size of my box room at home, and there are white sheets over all the furnishings in the room, like people were getting ready to paint, or leave.

A crackle draws my attention to the roaring bright spot in the room, so much bigger and grander than my worn-out stars.

I can feel the heat coming off of the blazing fire from here. My eyes widen as I stare at it, wondering if it's stupid to feel intimidated by its grandeur and life . . . because it seems so _alive_. It takes up so much space, so hungry for the oxygen it devours.

I pull my eyes reluctantly away from it, scanning the large room for any sign of a person or people. But everything is so _quiet. _It unnerves me at the same time it relaxes me. I'm used to the quiet, sure, but not from someone else. Not from someone who isn't Charlie.

I think my heart freezes in my chest then.

_Charlie_.

Suddenly, I am so angry at myself for waking up so slowly, for getting caught up in a stupid fireplace.

_Charlie_.

The events of yesterday suddenly come rushing back to me.

_Oh, God._

My mind fast forwards school and slows down on my wanderings through the forest. It pans across the night sky and zooms in on the ivy-ensnared house.

I remember collapsing onto the floor, inescapable silent tears dribbling down my cheeks as I sat there. I remember darkness, I remember falling asleep . . .

I look around me_. I don't remember this._

The panic that had surrounded my throat earlier suddenly grips me tightly; squeezing my ribcage until I feel breathless – only, air doesn't help. In my mind, I wander through the landscape I travelled yesterday so fruitlessly and find that fear I felt then.

I feel it now.

Feeling a dreadful kind of desperation, I immediately leap up out of the bed, landing – surprisingly for once – on my feet. I wobble for a second, like I might fall, but anxiety outweighs clumsiness and I stay upright.

But when my eyes dart to my feet, they find my legs, my stomach – skin that should be hidden under layers of fabric, but which isn't.

Pressure builds up inside of my chest as a shrill, hysterical noise burns in the back of my throat. My hands go up the grip the roots of my hair as I spiral down towards panic, full and thick.

But my blood is thin.

And my body feels dangerously frail.

I have to get out

_Get out get out get out._

I immediately spin around and leap over to the door. My hand is on the knob when I hear it.

The – "_Please_."

I never understood before that, when faced with a dire situation, people in films and books would simply pause, like they had all the time in the world to contemplate their – usual fatal – future.

They could escape, they could _get out_ but it was like their feet were suddenly super glued to the floor. They had no choice but to await the devastation that was in store for them.

But I got it now.

Despite the heat of the room, and the heat seemingly rattling throughout my body, I felt colder, like I had stumbled into a block of ice – or become one. My fingers flexed on the door knob – I willed them to move – but they remained stuck – caught.

My arm shook with the strain, but my fingers wouldn't be coerced into turning.

My heart slammed in my chest.

The disembodied voice didn't speak again, and it was so silent that I almost started to believe that I had imagined it. But I heard the echo of it in my head and felt the goose bumps on my arms and knew that I hadn't.

But it was too silent. An unnerving kind.

_Me_ silent.

Common sense suddenly ticked into gear as I realised that they could be doing anything behind me . . . could be holding a gun or a knife, could be getting ready to –

I looked down at my unclothed body.

Then I inhaled, and it hurt.

I spun around before I could talk myself out of it. I couldn't be any more vulnerable than I already was. And seeing as I couldn't flee, then facing my demons had to be safer than turning my back on them.

I forced myself to look up.

For a moment, my eyes burned as they tried to register what they were seeing. But no matter how many times I blinked, the image of disbelief before me wouldn't dissipate.

There was a boy standing right in front of the window, but that wasn't what had me stunned into a stupor.

It was the burnt orange feathers that surrounded him.

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**A/N: So… cliffy, but not. We already knew he had wings, of course, but Bella didn't, and she needs to get her thoughts together…**

**Sorry for the shortness and lack of activity, but it had to be done!**

**See ya tomorrow. :P **


	8. Chapter 7: A World for Grown-Ups

**Chapter 7 – A World for Grown-Ups  
**

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_No_, I thought, _no_.

Everything you hear as a child, all the stories that feature mystical beings – like children that never grow up, enchanted forests and fairies – they seem so exciting, so _real_ in that suspended moment of naivety. Our childhood seems like it could last forever, with summers that stretch on and on and Christmases that we count down to a little earlier each year.

When real life barges in, the magic is dulled abruptly, so quick it makes you a little bit dizzy, like life is sneering and saying, _"you never stood a chance."_

Because my magic had been dulled – like the faded stars on my ceiling – I couldn't process what I was seeing – couldn't _believe_ in it enough to.

So I clung to my obtrusive rationality and thought _no_.

When the boy took a step forward, instinct took over.

I threw my hands up, like by pushing at the air I was pushing at him. "Stop!"

Out of the corner of my eye, because it was too much to look at him directly, I saw him freeze.

My breath shook as it rattled out of me, like coins in a tin can. My arms trembled, but I didn't dare let them fall to my sides. They were the only things granting me a little bit of separation from the surreal. It didn't matter that it may have only been surface apparent . . . it was held down by my insides as a very real deterrent.

His silence continued, and I think it was worse that he was. Noise would have been usual, expected. But this was different.

_None of this made any sense._

But then the air around me seemed to warp, and a slow, unexpected surge of relief shot through my veins as the quiet started to remind me of something. Of some_one._

My mind drew up a picture of his face. _Charlie_.

A lump formed in my throat once more as a pang of grief encircled my heart. All of a sudden I _miss_ him. And the anger I felt when I first awoke comes back on me two-fold.

The feeling gives me enough daring to say, "Where are my clothes?"

I still don't look at him straight on, but the thought of Charlie's worry has resolved my mind into a thick wall of steely determination. I only remember feeling like this once before – after everything – but that had faded all too quickly with the realisation that I just couldn't fix certain things – or people – by myself.

Silence answers me.

Frustrated and shaky – I still haven't lowered my arms – I carefully bring my gaze back to the boy. I want to rationalise that if he wanted to hurt me, he would have done it by now. But I'm kept on edge by the newness of the situation, so I just don't know.

I focus on his face and ignore everything else, because it's easier that way.

His face is pale and sharp, and his eyes glow unnaturally bright in the early morning dawn.

I fight a shudder that works its way down my spine, keeping my gaze from flickering. I don't waver in my stance, but my nails dig into my palms in front of me.

"I removed them," he says finally.

For a moment I falter, because of the strange lulling quality to his voice or because his response is unexpected, I'm not sure. My arms shake and almost drop, but now I feel like I need that barrier more than ever, so I keep them rigid.

I can hear my heartbeat thumping in my ears, so _loud_.

"Why?" I almost whisper, bravado suddenly gone. I wish I hadn't asked because I don't _want_ to know. But I know I need to.

My stare had shifted for a moment, wavering with the rest of my body, and I imagine I can almost feel his gaze as it flitters across my skin, tickling my eyelashes and lips.

When my focus shifts back to his, he responds.

"They were wet." He blinks at me. "And you were cold."

The way he says it . . . as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, like I should have known it already, and he couldn't fathom why I didn't.

My arms fall a fraction.

I look away from him again to peer down at myself . . . but apart from some bruises littering my legs – which I already knew I had – I don't see any other damage. I don't feel achy either, apart from the tell-tale signs of a headache and a blocked nose, which is what you get for wandering about in the cold and wet, I suppose.

He hasn't touched me. Not like . . . _that_.

Relieved, my eyes dart back to his.

"Okay," I say, wondering if it's stupid to believe him. Probably. But I do any way. "Okay."

And he still hasn't moved from when I'd told him to stop.

So, with brief hesitation, I let my arms drop.

"Please," he says again, his wide, glowing eyes suddenly insistent.

I frown at him, but he doesn't elaborate any further, so instead I ask, again, "Where are my clothes?"

I know there are so many other questions I could be asking right now like, _Why did you bring me here? _Who_ are you?_

What_ are you . . . _

I dismiss that thought as soon as it enters my mind. _Not real,_ I think, _they're fake. He bought them from a normal store. He probably had them stored in his wardrobe for Halloween and just put them on to freak his intruder out . . . _

But now that I've started thinking about them I can't seem to stop. My vision stops tunnelling so now I'm forced to gaze at the entirety of him, burnt orange feathers and all.

I swallow thickly, looking for that steadfast resolve again.

I know there are all of these other questions . . . but they would all be so pointless.

_I just want to go._

"My clothes?" I repeat when he doesn't answer, because now some of the fear has dissipated, I suddenly feel mortified.

He hesitates, a guilty look crossing his face. "I don't think they are dry yet."

I shake my head. _I don't care_. "It doesn't matter."

He nods once, and then moves forward a couple of spaces, bending down. Standing, he takes another step closer and stretches his arm out in front of him. My clothes are held out in offer.

Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I take tiny steps until I stand opposite him. The bed is between us, which makes me feel both relieved and queasy.

He stands still, staring at me. I avoid his gaze because it seems too bright.

His arm doesn't shake.

I raise my arms and tug at the clothes until they fall from his grasp. I open my mouth, because there's a _thank you_ dancing on the tip of my tongue. But I snap it closed again when I realise how stupid it'd be to _thank him_ for giving me back the clothes he took off of me.

I scurry back to the other side.

I clutch the fabric to my body, the coat so long that it covers from my shoulders down to my knees. Now that most of my skin is hidden away, I feel more than a little better.

"Can you turn around?" I ask tentatively. Maybe it's a silly request given that he's the one who undressed me, coupled with the fact I've been standing in nothing but my underwear in front of him for at least ten minutes. But giving up this new found shield of security is something I really don't want to do.

He looks hesitant, but after a minute of scanning my face, he nods once more, and turns around.

I swallow thickly at the sight of his back and almost drop the clothes in my hands.

_So they're not fake._

But I can't think about that. _I can't I can't I can't._

Snapping my gaze away, I pull my clothes back on with trembling fingers. He's right, they are still wet, but it hardly matters now.

I yank my vest over my head before struggling with my damp jeans. Once done, I button Charlie's plaid top all the way up to the top until it cuts at my neck and then quickly shrug my coat on. After I shove my pumps on, my hand dips into my jean pocket until I find the hard shell of my phone.

_Still no signal._

When I look up, the boy's back is still to me.

I look away before my eyes can start to burn in disbelief, and feel a sudden overwhelming burst of desperation flood through me.

_Now_, my feet tell me, _it's time to go._

I spin around. My hand finds the door knob.

It flexes like it's taunting me; sneering at me. I imagine the metal warps underneath my hand before a grotesque face appears, like something out of a fantastical nightmare.

It tells me, _"you never stood a chance."_

I scowl at the make-believe, magical face; crush it with my palm.

I'm not a child anymore, and the magic is over.

Then I turn the knob, and I flee.

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* * *

**A/N: *facepalm* Running away seems like Bella and Edward's favoured method of choice, huh?  
**

**Thanks for all the favourites/subscribes/reviews. I don't feel like I'll ever be able to say it enough. But I'm truly humbled by every single one of you. Your kind words and continued support is invaluable. :)**

**I'll see you all tomorrow! **


	9. Chapter 8: Finding Home

**Chapter 8 – Finding Home **

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**Half in sunlight**

*****  
** And half in shade**

*****  
** Words in collision**

*****  
** I bend to your shape  
**

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I fly down the stairs, the quick tread of my feet in tandem with the quick thumping of my heart. Blood rushes through my veins, roaring in my ears, and my head throbs at the sudden jolting it's taking. But I don't slow down. I sure as heck don't stop.

I can't tell if he's following me or not because my body is beating too noisily in my ears. If I'm lucky, maybe he's still turned around where I left him.

_Maybe_.

The front door is easy to find as it's the only one with any light spilling out from under it. I pull it open and dart outside without any hassle. Then I run.

Only when I've been running for as long and hard as I can, until my lungs are burning and my head feels like it's fit to bursting, do I stop. When I come to a complete halt I cast a nervous glance behind me.

The house has disappeared, swallowed back up by the forest.

I let out a relieved breath, listening for a minute for any sounds. When I hear none, I slink down onto a nearby rock and drop my head into my palms. My heart beat starts to slow as I once more take comfort in being in the familiar arms of alone.

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.

In the daylight, the forest is not nearly so menacing. The sweet sound of the birds and the gentle breeze that caresses the trees feels so much friendlier in the light of day. I recall why I was drawn here yesterday afternoon, but halt my mind before it can spiral any further.

All this green and peace turns out to be a most welcome distraction.

Every ten minutes or so I pull out my phone to check for signal. I figure that way I could at least tell if I was nearing civilisation, but the bars remain unhelpfully empty. After hours of walking – in circles, for all I knew – I come to a stop.

As the day had progressed, the sun had only grown higher and hotter. I feel it now, beating down on me relentlessly. Yesterday's storm seemed to have cleared the air for a rare sunny day in Forks, which wasn't great . . . but I suppose anything beat the rain and wind I'd been caught in last night. Grumbling, I pull off my coat, wiping my nose on my sleeve for what seemed like the hundredth time.

I tug on my hair as I sink to my knees, pressing my forehead against the forest floor – because the soil still held some of the damp – and threw my coat over my head to ward off the incongruous sun.

My forehead pounds and I sniffle.

I would never again wander off if I could just find home.

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Edward had known she was going to run before he even turned around. There was something tight and desperate in her face that told him she wouldn't stay. And even though he knew this, even as he listened to the muffled sound of her feet turning on the carpet, the quiet way she grasped the brass metal before darting away, her feet hitting the stairs in a way which resonated throughout Edward's body, making him feel a little more hollow with each step she took away . . . even though he knew, even as he heard and felt . . . still, he let her go.

_He let her go._

Moments before she had first awoken, Edward had pulled himself away from her bedside, flying across the room until he was out of the window and sitting on the roof.

He couldn't really explain his strange behaviour, but his heart had been beating so quickly in his chest at the time, so he never stopped to analyse his actions. Instead, he listened as the human rose from their sleep, his hearing focused so intently on the sound of her breathing, the rustle of the sheets as she moved.

When he heard the soft tread of her footfalls on the carpet – heading away from him – he couldn't stay away any longer. He leapt from the roof through the window and into the room in a single bound. His landing was silent.

But for a moment he stood immobile.

Her back was to him . . . and all that _hair_ tumbled down her shoulders to the middle of her spine like thick ivy. He gazed at the curled ends hugging her snow-white skin in fascination, recalling the feel of it between his fingers as he stroked it across the floor last night, wanting to feel it now . . .

He stared until he heard her hand on the doorknob.

She had only rested it there, but to his ears it sounded like a blow.

The _please_ was out of his mouth before he could stem it. It seemed to arrive from someplace new, as it made him think that even if he could have stopped it, he wouldn't have.

He knew what he was pleading for. He didn't want her to go. The switch in his demeanour from yesterday morning to now was confounding – indeed, he might have laughed at the prospect of coming to be so entangled with a human only 24 hours ago. But he wasn't laughing now.

He was waiting.

She had slept for hours, so peacefully. But now that she was awake, he didn't want her to leave before he could see her face again, this time animated with life.

When she eventually had turned around, he was unprepared.

Asleep she was tantalising, tempting; something to watch over and wonder. Awake she was . . .

She was _blinding_.

He'd stood in frozen shock while he watched her eyes flash at him. He caught them from across the room – the splash of inviting brown that reminded him of the warm barks of the trees in the summer.

They burned him.

His heart leapt up to his throat, and he couldn't help it.

He took a step forward.

With her hair like climbing ivy, her eyes like warm trees and her skin like the pale snow canvas of the sky – _how could he resist?_

But then she'd thrown her arms up, she'd yelled, "_Stop_!"

So he had.

In the ensuing moments of stillness, where he watched her arms tremble as she held them out in front of her, and her gaze dart away from his he felt . . . strange. He hadn't thought about how she'd react, but this didn't seem good.

She had asked about her clothes. Twice. Edward's response was empty the first time because he was having a hard time concentrating – a sudden flush had bloomed in her cheeks just as she'd said the words – and Edward found himself in sensory overload. But when she'd snapped her gaze to his – that warm brown, the same rich colour as her hair – he'd found his voice again.

"I removed them," he'd said.

Strangely, he watched the red in her cheeks drain at his response. They suddenly turned pale again, and a feeling of worry niggled at his stomach.

Her whispered _why _had sounded so forlorn, but _he_ didn't know why.

He'd told her his reasons with a heavy feeling of confusion settling inside of him. He thought it should have been obvious. _What other possible cause could he have for removing her clothes?_

When she had dropped her arms it felt like he had done something right. Feeling so pleased, he'd almost took another step forward. But then his gaze had dropped downwards, and he was suddenly aware again of her unclothed state. From even across the room, he could see the tiny bumps on her arms and something gnawed at his stomach in worry again.

She had been so cold last night, and now she didn't have the thick duvet for protection anymore. And Edward knew – and as was so clearly demonstrated last night – humans were so very fragile.

His eyes had darted over to the bed so quickly then right back to hers. He looked at her and his lips had offered out an urgent _please_ again.

But she'd only asked for her clothes again.

A swell of guilt had crept up on him as he realised that her clothes were still lying in a heap on the floor. He knew they were still wet, but she had been insistent on getting them back. When she had crept closer to retrieve them, Edward gaze remained steadfastly fixed on her. She was within arm's reach, and her eyes were so deep even though she wouldn't look directly at him.

He had been so lost in staring at her – _again_ – that she was back across the room and asking him to _turn around_ before he realised she was no longer closer enough to touch.

Her skin was hidden and her eyes were determined. He had known.

He had known that when he turned around she would be gone.

But still, he obeyed her request.

His gaze left her for the first time since she'd awoken.

.

.

.

It had taken Edward two seconds to realise his mistake.

Five for the panic to mount.

Seven to yell at himself for his immobility.

Nine for the rush of empty that made him wince.

And ten until he was down the stairs, out of the house, and sky high as he tracked the human running away from him and into the forest.

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.

I let myself rest there, on the forest floor, knowing very well that it was only succeeding in wasting time, but unable to summon all the guilt necessary as I find a momentary shelter.

But Charlie's face rears again, making me bang my forehead against the earth. I hate knowing that he's probably worrying over me somewhere – it won't be home because he won't be able to sit still. He'll be looking for me, this I know. Just like he went looking for her.

Only he had been too late then.

I heave out a groan, shaking my head from side to side to try to wipe the horrible feeling away. But it lingers, clinging onto the thread bare fibres in my mind. They never truly leave, and the pain is bearable only when it's ignored.

It is so much easier not to feel.

Being alone keeps me safe.

But I keep heart for Charlie even if I don't show it via gregarious gestures; a hug to say hello or a kiss on the cheek goodnight. I'll always love him too much, because he's all I have left, and the only person I don't want to leave me.

I don't want him to think I've left him, too.

So I snap my eyes open, my arms pushing up off the ground. But before I can, I feel something hard and solid encircle my waist, lifting me up and then picking me up. The coat is removed from my head and all I can do for a moment is blink in the bright sunlight.

I turn my head to find my gaze inches away from the boys, and level, because he's holding me like I'm a baby.

I blink again, because his eyes are brighter than the sun.

"Please," he whispers softly, his voice holding the gentle dulcet tones of a lullaby. "Let me help you."

I don't say yes and I don't say no.

Instead I say, brokenly, "I just want to go home."

He nods and his eyes are pillow-soft like he understands. Maybe he does.

One minute we're on the ground.

And in the next, we're in the air.

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* * *

**A/N: Have to admit, giggled a little when writing – "_What other possible cause could he have for removing her clothes?_" Edward is 100% winning in the adorably clueless department. :')  
**

**Might not get a chapter out tomorrow because my brother is coming back from his holiday and he might want to talk to me (probably consisting of him reprimanding me for not having started watching Game of Thrones yet). You guys know how it is.  
**

**Either way... see you soon!**


	10. Chapter 9: Reassurance

**Chapter 9 – Reassurance **

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I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as the world swerves past, partly because if I look down I think I might be sick, but mostly because denial will spring from my lips as soon as I do. But the wind chapping at my cheeks, the arms around me and the soft _whoosh_ of something keeping us up in the clouds can't be denied anymore.

I tremble all over. It's colder up here, but that isn't why I'm shaking.

I am hugged tighter anyway.

Banishing all sense, I rest my cheek against his chest and listen to the rapid _thump thump_ of his heart. And even though his chest is bare his skin is so warm. It reminds me of being back in that room, with the fire that seemed to take up the whole space with its heat . . .

His chest vibrates under me.

"Which one is yours?" he asks softly.

My eyes shoot open at the sound of his voice, my heart thudding. I stare at his skin, unblinking and uncomprehending.

"Where is your home?" he prompts again, his voice dropping lower and ticking my ear, moving closer so I can hear him better.

I pull my head up after a moment, meeting the gaze trained on me.

My breath catches as I watch his eyes swirl, transforming and changing like the seasons transform and change the colour of tree leaves. They settle on soft amber that shimmers, rippling gently like calm water under a still moon. And when he blinks, the ink of his eyelashes creates a sweep of dark sky that whispers across the subdued light illuminating from his eyes.

His gaze is beautiful, but in such a surreal way, as if it was stolen from a painter's mind.

"My home?" I whisper.

He nods only once, his hair tumbling forward as he tips his head downwards. His gaze darts away from me for a moment before returning.

I drag my gaze from his to see what his stare at been directed at. I have to snap my eyes shut again, only glimpsing the sight of houses and small shops.

We're . . . _above_ town.

I swallow thickly, my mind screaming at me to _get it together_ even as my heart trills at the sight of being so high off the ground. Safe, stable _ground_.

I try to do it quickly.

My eyes dart to the side of me, past the familiar shops and school until I see its foundations. It looks so small from here, and so secluded.

I lift my arm and quickly point to it, it's easy to spot and differentiate because of the amount of overflowing greenery encasing the front and back of it. "That one." I pull my trembling arm back into the safety of my body then, not liking how it hung in mid-air – suspended and helpless.

Pressing my face back into his chest I mumble, "The one with the overgrown garden."

I rise with him as he inhales deeply, before letting out a sigh that sounds almost painful, that is lost to the wind almost as soon as it appears. My stomach flip-flops when he starts moving again, and my eyes find themselves falling shut once more.

I feel it when his feet touch the ground.

A relieved breath I didn't realise I had been harbouring escapes me as everything suddenly becomes still. I open my eyes after a minute, lifting my head up until I see lank grass and so many weeds; neglected windows on an old run-down shed, and the faded blue of our house. I swallow thickly, something stinging in my heart before working its way up to my eyes.

_Home._

"You can . . . can put me down now," I whisper.

He hesitates for a moment, his arms tightening around me a fraction before he releases me, setting me gently upright on the ground. I sway for a second, prompting him to put a steadying hand on my arm. I can sense him looking at me while I look up at the house, suddenly feeling the need to run inside and shut myself away.

But instead I turn to the boy.

I look into his eyes and I tell him, "Thank you."

Because I at least owe him that.

His amber eyes glimmer back at me. And when he smiles it turns into glitter, into hundreds of thousands of tiny stars perched in the centre of his gaze, like he has a whole constellation inside of him – lighting him up.

_Maybe that's why they're so bright. _

"You're welcome . . . " he says-smiles, and then inclines his head to the side, like he's waiting for something.

I think it's my name. So I tell him. "Bella . . . I'm Bella."

His gaze feathers across my skin, but when he doesn't say anything more, I look away. The heat of his gaze is too much, too confusing.

"I guess I'll . . . be going then." I take a step away, but his hand is still on my arm, so when I move, he comes with me.

I pause, and then I look back up at him, almost reluctantly, a question in my gaze.

"My name is Edward," he says, sort of hurriedly. I nod slowly in reply, watching his gaze turn a little darker, looking more like drenched earth now. "Will you permit me to see you again?"

Something inside of me jolts, jerking my body backwards. His question, much like his gaze, is too much right now.

"I don't know," I tell him, half-lying, half not. I _don't_ know . . . but something in me wants to outright tell him _no_. But there's no part of me that definitely wants to say _yes_. Because I don't understand this. I don't understand _any_ of this.

For the second time today I think, _none of this makes any sense._

He nods slowly, like he wasn't expecting anything more.

Something pangs inside of me, but I shake it off quickly.

"So, goodbye then . . . " I trail off, stepping further away, trying to shake his hold loose.

His eyes tighten around the edges as he follows me once more, turning almost black and completely starless. "If you want me," he starts, his hand burning my upper arm, even through the layers of fabric. "Just speak my name, and I'll be here."

My heart thumps in my chest.

"Okay," I whisper, and I don't question it, because after today – _how can I?_

His hand falls from my arm in fingers, until the last thing I feel is the tip of his index finger brushing against my shirt. He takes a step back, but not before I feel the sudden drop in temperature his skin takes.

"Goodbye, Bella," he utters gently, smiles something sad, and then shoots off into the sky.

A gasp inadvertently leaves my lips as I watch him go, a blur of burnt orange against the pale blue sky.

When I blink, he's gone, taking all of his colour with him.

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.

By the time I have turned back to the house, Charlie's face is swarming in my mind as I run up the steps. I take them two at a time, shoving my keys into the lock and then darting inside.

He isn't here.

I have to bite my lip to hold in the sob that threatens to spill out. I knew he wouldn't be. I knew he would have been at the station, or out looking for me. But I had asked . . . _Edward_ to bring me back here because here was home. Memories were embedded into these walls even if the walls themselves were seemingly unimportant. Picture frames and window-sills and even the abandoned old shed and faded paint work were all sentiments of another time – something that felt like another life, sometimes.

Laughs and tears and everyday mundane conversations. It was all here. And it always would be.

So I rush upstairs then, because I know exactly where I want to be.

Then I find my phone and I ring Charlie.

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.

I hear his boots on the stairs first, and then the creak of the floorboards as he opens doors and looks inside rooms, calling my name.

"I'm here," I manage to warble out.

Then he opens the right door, he stands in the doorway, he says, "Oh, Bella."

I burst into tears.

The next thing I know dad-smell is all around me and the scruff on his cheek is on my cheek as he hugs me so, so tightly. I cling to him like sadness clings to the threadbare fibres in my mind, wishing everything would go away, wishing everything would stop feeling so bad.

He doesn't shush me or tell me not to cry, just holds me, and I think he might cry a little bit too.

"I thought I'd lost you," he chokes out, and there is an unspoken, _like her_ attached to his words.

I shake my head. "I wandered off into the woods," I try to say, but my voice won't stop trembling. "I'm sorry. _I'm so sorry."_

He hugs me tighter, like he needs the reassurance I'm really here. And really alive. His voice his thick when he says, "Don't ever do that to me again."

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the ache in my throat. "I won't. I promise I won't ever."

And then because I can't remember the last time I said it, and it suddenly seems so important, I tell him, "I love you, dad. Forever."

His voice is raw when he responds, more vulnerable and open than I've heard in almost two years. "I love you too, Bella. So much."

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* * *

**A/N: These two are breaking my heart. :'( **

**Thank you for reading/reviewing/subscribing/favouriting! You guys make my day/month/year. :)**

**Oh, and if anyone's interested, while writing about the last half of this chapter I was listening to a specific theme from _Sherlock_. If you fancy a listen, you can find the link on my profile. I'm planning on making it a thing. So any songs I was listening to during past chapters (and future ones) will appear on my profile from now on. So if you fancy listening along while you read, it's at your disposal. :)  
**

**See you soon!**


	11. Chapter 10: Home is Where the Heart is

**Chapter 10 – Home is Where the Heart is**

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Edward had not immediately returned back to the house upon bidding _Bella_ goodbye.

He had sped away and hidden amongst the trees, staring down at her immersed in the tall grass. Her eyes were round, her mouth open in a gasp. She was once again seemingly small, but amid all the greenery he thought she stood out so bright, beaming tall and brilliant just for him.

After a minute she'd shook her head, looked down then knelt down before rushing back to her home, running up the steps like the devil was on her tail.

He felt like he had been submerged into water, watching her fade from view, when only moments ago she was so _close_. He clung onto the tree branch, his fingers snapping the bark in two as he tried to strap down his whirring insides. But they revolted and sprang up, vibrating, _humming_.

Something wasn't right, he knew this. He _needed_ to talk to Jasper; it couldn't be put off any longer.

If his assumption of what was happening proved to be correct . . . well. He wasn't sure what he would do, just as he wasn't sure how he felt about it. His feelings were tumultuous, such as he'd never felt before. He couldn't remember a time when he'd felt torn between anything – ever.

But he was so torn now.

Her phone call to her father had been muted – he'd had to lean forward to catch her voice. But when he had, he'd felt that pang inside of him again, rising up out of the obliterated ashes of his insides, calling to him, _pulling_ at him.

His choice seemed so easy to make when she was so near, and he was feeling like this. But it shouldn't have been, he didn't _want_ it to be, and that's why he needed to get away – fast.

But he stayed until he heard her father return, because he couldn't bear to leave her alone.

He'd heard the sobs as soon as he'd taken a step off the branch.

He'd forced himself not to look back.

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.

Edward waited on a tree branch some distance into the forest, knowing that Jasper would come soon.

Despite all of Edward's hang-ups about humans and Jasper's continued insistence of their brilliance, he was still Edward's most loyal friend. They differentiated on many matters, yes, but this wasn't always a bad thing. He saw things in a way Edward could not, and vice-versa. And Jasper had a way about him; a sort of calm that had helped to make sense of Edward's jumbled thoughts on many occasions.

He was hoping today would be no exception.

"You have a problem."

He had arrived without the slightest flutter of wind to stir the tree leaves. He had arrived as Edward always did; silently.

"Indeed," Edward replied without turning his head, not even wondering how he knew.

"Hmm," Jasper hummed. "So I was right then. You _were_ agitated earlier – I could feel it." Even though Edward's face was turned towards the forest, he could imagine Jasper's finger tapping his chin in thought. A gesture he had no doubt picked up from his beloved humans. "But what could have ruffled your feathers so?" he continued in amusement.

Edward finally turned to face his friend. "This is a serious matter," he replied, his eyebrows furrowing. "I would appreciate it if you treated it as such."

Jasper rolled his eyes at his stern-faced friend. "All matters are serious to you, brother."

Edward's annoyance streaked. "_Jasper_."

"_Okay_," he replied, his tone losing its humour. He swivelled on the branch until he was facing Edward, then opened his arms smoothly and said, "I'm listening."

Edward inhaled deeply, a nervous breath – something which caught Jasper's attention in surprise – before launching into all that had occurred the previous night and the following morning.

As Jasper listened to Edward tale, his eyebrows had crept higher and higher until they were hidden by the glossy locks that spilled over his forehead. By the end of his story, Edward's voice had risen an octave or two and he was twitching in a way that had Jasper's eyes widening. His friend always seemed so composed outwardly, that to see the physical effects of his internal turmoil was something which Jasper had no experience in.

Yet . . . Jasper was not surprised. And he told Edward so.

"What!" Edward burst out, causing a few birds perched in the trees nearby to scatter. "This is the last thing on this planet – and ours – that I ever wanted to happen! How does this not shock you?"

A smile twitched on Jasper's lips, yet he kept it hidden, knowing that it would only agitate his friend further. "Just because it is the last thing you wanted to happen, does not make it _surprising_ that it did so," he pointed out – rather _annoyingly_ – Edward thought. "It is to be expected. It is why we are here, after all."

Edward's face dropped at Jasper's words. "So you think my assumption correct then?"

Jasper nodded. "I know it to be."

Edward blinked at his friend, first in confusion, but which quickly gave way to aggravation. "How do you so assuredly _claim_ to be in possession of such knowledge?"

"We were told many a time – "

"But that does not necessarily translate – "

" – _what_ it would feel like, what would happen," Jasper went on, as if Edward had never interrupted. He hesitated a moment before adding, "But it is not just that."

Edward felt a sense of foreboding, he didn't want to inquire what else there was. It could only be more evidence not in his favour. But of course he had to ask. "What, Jasper?"

Jasper surreptitiously looked around – which was ridiculous considering they were miles above the ground, and so far out of reach of any human ears, not that there were any humans for miles anyway – and then he leaned closer.

"It is because I was in your position just shy of three weeks ago."

Edward's eyes widened. For a moment he could not form a response.

Jasper leaned back, regarding his friends silence in amusement. Edward was often silent, but so infrequently like this.

Finally, Edward found his voice and said, "You lie." But his voice was inundated with doubt, like he was forcing himself to say the words – _willing_ them to be true.

Jasper shook his head in earnest. "I speak the truth!" he insisted, and went on to explain. "I was doing my habitual swoop above town – as I do every afternoon. I was paying particular attention to the hospital, I remember," his eyes misted as he reminisced, but he momentarily broke his story to say – "Fascinating, isn't it? The way they seek to preserve life so ardently, ensuring their survival for so many millennia to come – "

"Jasper," Edward interrupted, his desperation growing.

"Right, right," his friend said, before returning to his tale. "As I landed on the roof off the building, I felt something call out inside of me like a – pang – as you described it. It was such a startling sensation that I froze for a moment . . . when I came to my eyes immediately lighted on a person on the opposite side of the roof, facing away from me. My vision had tunnelled, and I felt that pull again. I had crossed without my feet being aware of my moving, and before I – or she – knew it, I had been touching her shoulder. When she turned to face me – " he abruptly stopped, his eyes clearing as his gaze swivelled back to Edward.

"She had run away." He frowned. "I did not like that."

"No," Edward said miserably, recalling his own feeling of panic when Bella had fled.

Jasper smiled then, his eyes brightening among the dense foliage. "But she does not run from me now."

Edward eyes widened, then narrowed. "You see her still?"

"Of course," his friend replied, his eyebrows darting up. "Just as Bella is yours, she is my – "

Edward held a hand up. "Do not say it."

One of Jasper's blonde brows dropped. "But how can you deny it still? You even told her to speak your name if ever she wants you."

In a surprisingly human gesture, Edward dragged his hands through his hair in frustration, sending the bronze locks into messy disarray. "I am not myself when I am with her. I cannot think clearly or in perspective _of_ anything else. She becomes the earth and I the moon, orbiting only her and losing sight of everything else." He let out a pained groan. "I do not want this. It _cannot_ be true."

Jasper could not fight the smile on his lips this time, not that it would matter, as his friends eyes were clouded over, thinking of his _Bella_, he assumed.

"You cannot run from this, brother," Jasper told him. "You do not even want to, despite what you tell yourself."

Edward squeezed his eyes shut, like he could block out Jasper and the truths he spilled. When he spoke, his voice was oddly – and sadly, Jasper thought – childlike. "But I want to go home."

In reply, Jasper laid a comforting hand on his friends shoulder, knowing that he would resist no matter what Jasper said. Until Edward was ready – or until the pull became unbearable – he would deny his instinct and will at all cost, which would only result in deeper pain for him in the end.

"I know how you hate my penchant for human idioms," Jasper said gently. "But in this case, I think it may be apt."

"Home is where the heart is," he quoted, squeezing his friends shoulder. "And right now your home isn't thousands of light years away. It is right here."

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**A/N: Jasper is so wise . . . **

**I actually really enjoyed writing this chapter. Seeing Edward and Jasper interact was fun for me, so I hope it was for you, too!**

**See you soon!**


	12. Chapter 11: You Could Be Happy?

**Chapter 11 – You Could Be Happy?**

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**Is it too late to remind you how **_**we were**_** . . . **

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I awake in the middle of the night.

I'm not sure what stirs me . . . only know that it hadn't been one of my habitual nightmares. Because I don't wake up too cold or too terrified to let my eyes slide shut again. In that five second space of staring in the dark, I can discern nothing.

Yet I can feel everything.

Charlie is next to me; I can feel the rough stubble of his chin just touching my forehead. I can hear his slow, even breaths and the feeling of his hand on top of mine, like a reassuring weight, anchoring me to the here and now and reminding me not everything was so bad, not all of the time.

Something warm settles in my heart, but is kind enough to stay, instead of fleeing like it's only some ephemeral surface sheen of _love_. This isn't playing pretend at something else; at something it could never hope to actually be.

This is _it_.

Then the dark suddenly transforms; becomes colourful and bright, something rosy and burnt orange.

Sort of smiling in the light, my eyes drift closed.

And for the second night in a row, I sleep peacefully.

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Unprecedented noises in the kitchen wake me in the morning.

I blink my eyes open slowly to the sound of pans clanging, metal on metal, followed by a series of muffled swear words. There's silence before there's something that sounds like a . . . huff? And then a quiet but firm, "_Right_."

A grin spread across my lips – so effortless that it actually surprises so much that I have to touch my mouth with my fingertips to check it's actually there.

Rising from the bed, I stand up to stretch, my body feeling sore from the previous days. I watch the light reach its bright fingered tips across the bed, warming the mattress. And when I drift over to the window, I squint up at the sun, wondering at the two fine days we've had – feeling my lips twitch at the sight of a grey cloud on the horizon.

It rains lightly at first, only mere spatters here and there, but when the clouds give themselves fully over – it pours.

I close my eyes to the sound of the rain beating the earth.

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I wander down the stairs soon after, following the smell of burning with some concern. When I round the corner into the kitchen, I freeze, stuck dumb in the doorway for a minute.

Charlie is standing over the hob, spatula in one hand . . . and a juggling act of a frying pan, a small book and a bowl of mix in the other.

"Dad?" I ask in bemusement, coming out of my stupor.

"Bella!" he bursts out, sounding simultaneously relieved and flustered. I watch in trepidation as his elbow narrowly avoids missing knocking over the frying pan as he swings around to face me. I can hear whatever he has in there hissing and spitting out angrily from here.

With wide eyes I say, "What are you doing?" I have a pretty good idea, but said idea is so . . . peculiar that I have a hard time believing what I'm seeing.

Red-faced he replies, "Making breakfast?"

I bite down on my lip to hide the smile that threatens to spill out.

"Let me help," I insist, crossing to him quickly. I take the amalgamation of items out of his hands and set them on the counter, my eyes flying over the book, the pan and the mix.

"Pancakes?" I ask curiously, looking up at him.

He nods, the hand not holding the spatula coming up the scratch the back of his neck. "They're your favourite, right?"

I blink up at him for a minute, startled. I don't remember the last time we ate breakfast together, and I never remember a time when Charlie made breakfast – for me or for himself. Not because he was negligent, just because he . . . _couldn't_.

But he remembers this, and for some reason this small gesture has tears biting at the back of my eyes.

I look down to hide them. "Yeah," I say quietly. "They are."

Silence blankets the kitchen for a moment before he clears his throat.

"Go on and sit down then," he says gruffly, gesturing to the table he's set. I blink at that too for a second, dumbfounded. He gives me a little push towards it. "Breakfast will be ready soon."

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I watch Charlie as he works, silently fascinated.

I don't recall ever seeing him cook before, and he is clumsy at first, having trouble navigating between reading, mixing and frying. But then he starts getting the hang of it, even going as far as flipping a couple of them – which he's surprisingly good at.

When he sees my impressed gaze, he remarks, "I'm a cop, Bells. Good hand-eye coordination comes with the job."

I nod slowly; muttering a small, quiet, "Oh."

When he sets the plate down in front of me, drenched in golden syrup, I look up at him and smile. He meets my gaze for a second, looking slightly startled, before squeezing my hand and retreating to his side of the table.

Peering down at my plate, I can see the burnt outer edges of the pancake, and when I take a bite, my mouth is filled with only slightly undercooked batter and thick, sweet syrup.

Charlie clears his throat. I look up to see him scratching the back of his neck again. "I know it's not five star gourmet food but – "

"Dad, it's great," I interrupt him, taking another large bite for emphasis. My heart wilts in my chest a little at how quickly he dismisses his effort. "Really. And you even remembered how much I love syrup."

His hand falls from the back of his neck as his eyes light up. "You used to use up about a third of the bottle on only _one_, and then you'd be climbing the walls for hours after from all the sugar." He laughs lightly, his eyes so bright in the morning sun.

I shake my head a little, fighting a grin. "You should have taken it away from me."

His look turns sheepish, his smile – impish. "But it was funny."

A laugh leaps from my lips so suddenly that I start at the foreign sound. I clasp my hand to my mouth in surprise until Charlie starts to chuckle, and then I let it fall away.

Then we go back to our pancakes with inexorable smiles plastered to our lips, like this is something we do so easily every morning.

Somehow, that breakfast becomes the best thing I've tasted in a long, long time.

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After we've stuffed ourselves until we feel fit to bursting, Charlie slides his chair back from the table and collects the plates. He starts washing up without a word.

"I can – " I start, beginning to rise.

He shakes his head briefly. "I managed pancakes without burning the house down. This water and soap stuff is child's play."

Nodding slowly, I settle back into my chair.

"So, what do you want to do today?"

At his odd request, I almost tip myself out of my chair. I stare at his back, covered in plaid, silently for a minute. I don't know how to feel. We haven't done this . . . routine in such a long while. I feel out of sync, the audio and video not quite matching up correctly.

Hearing my silence, he shoots me a questioning gaze over his shoulder. "Bella?"

I blink at him. "Huh?"

"Uh . . . what would you like to do today?" His voice sounds more unsure this time, lacking the easy, nonchalant air his tone held the first time round. And I feel that same twinge I felt when he doubted himself with the pancakes earlier. I feel like he's trying and I keep on failing.

I take a breath. "Um," I mumble, racking my brain for past years. But my mind is too dusty, and it's taking time to recall times when we still did things together.

His shoulders droop. "That's okay, we don't have to – "

"Fishing!" I blurt out, the first and nearest thing within reach.

He turns to me then, drying his hands on a tea-towel. "Fishing, huh?" he repeats, his eyebrows high up on his forehead.

"Yeah," I reply, relieved. "You remember? We used to take a picnic when it was nice." I watch his eyes anxiously, and an inaudible sigh works its way through my veins when I see a tiny smile twitching at his lips.

Glancing out of the window he says, almost to himself, "Billy has been bugging me . . . " Then he turns back to me. "Okay, kiddo," he says, smiling properly now. "Though I think it might be a bit too wet to take a picnic."

I flick my eyes to left briefly, watching the water droplets slip down the panes of glass. Then I shrug and smile shakily back. "I don't think I could eat another thing for hours anyway."

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I stare out of the truck window as we drive to the lake, fogging the screen with my breath and drawing meaningless swirls and patterns; stars and wings.

I glance over a Charlie periodically, and every time I do his face is clouded but set; a kind of determination that may seem universal but which is so personal. I want to ask him what he's thinking, but I'm scared of the answer.

Leaning my head on the window, I swipe my patterns away and watch the rain.

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The little wooden boat looks the same as it did all those years ago.

I have drawn this scene many times over in my mind, because it always felt so bright and happy; always made me smile to think of it when I felt especially lost, or empty.

There would be a grassy embankment saturated in light that was sometimes hidden by ever present clouds. On this bank sat a large cherry red and white squared picnic blanket – the kind you always seemed to see in films. There would be a little wicker basket beside it, filled with tuna sandwiches and apple juice (my favourite), and homemade scones filled with strawberry jam, or maybe slices of Battenberg. I had chosen it because the squares inside it matched perfectly with the ones on our blanket.

Sometimes, I would out in the boat with Charlie, but more often than not I would stay on the bank; reading or drawing or playing – frequently just lying down next to mom, her fingers tickling my hair.

A day there would last all day, but when the sun went down it still felt like too soon to say goodbye.

Blinking back the memories, I turn slightly to my right, watching Charlie's eyes fade in the morning dew. When he blinks, I watch him fall back to earth.

He sighs. When he peers at me his eyes look sad, before he quickly dismisses it. He smiles, but it isn't as deep as it was this morning.

Nodding to the boat, he says, "Come on then."

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That day doesn't last as long, and we have to leave when the rain turns to hail. But so many times I open my mouth, want to say something, _anything_. Yet it dries up each time I look to him, my voice becomes lost somewhere in the vast expanse of my throat, and so I remain silent.

Everything I think of to say has something of her in it, because this was our place and she's everywhere. I want so badly to talk to him about it. But his eyes are so, so far away, that even if I yelled I don't think I could reach him.

It was a bad idea – coming here – I only wished I'd realised that before my lips had been stupid enough to spew the suggestion out.

_I'm sorry,_ I think.

The drive back is unlike the drive there. The quiet feels like a thick layer of lead being forced down into my lungs. I want this morning back, I want that ease and familiarity.

_I want, I want, I want. _

The hail is heavy and violent on the roof, and nothing at all like the rain.

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"We'll do this again tomorrow, hey?"

I lift my gaze to Charlie's from where I sit in front of the fire, staring at the flames.

"But what about work?" I ask hurriedly, panic gnawing at the edges of my stomach. "And school?"

He frowns slightly. "Work isn't a problem . . . and school, well, that doesn't last all day. We can do something when you come home tomorrow." His eyes brighten a little. "I'll have dinner cooked for when you get home, and then – "

"Dad," I interrupt him, my voice strained. "I have a lot on at the moment . . . and exams are coming up so I – things are just a bit . . . " I trail off, struggling.

It's not the truth, and I feel my heart ache when I watch his shoulders droop for the second time that day.

"Okay," he mutters, his hand trailing to his neck again. "Well I guess I'll just . . . catch up on some work stuff I missed today then."

I nod slowly, feeling my heart wilt like a flower that's gone too long without water. I watch as his gaze slides shut before reopening again. His stare is quiet, the determination on his face from earlier all but gone. But there is a glimmer of something new, and it makes something flare in my heart.

Taking the three steps towards me, he quickly reaches down and kisses the top of my head. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling everything.

"I'll make dinner tonight," he murmurs. "And tomorrow night and – and all week, okay? And I can pick you up from school tomorrow, and drive you there . . . because I know how you always walk, even in the rain, and I don't want you to – don't want –" I hear him swallow thickly from above me, his voice choking off.

In response, a tear finally manages to sneak its way past my eyelid, falling onto the carpet below with a soundless cry.

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**A/N: :( That was tough to write . . . but things can't just get better overnight. It's going to take time, but they're on their way.**

**Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for all your kind words and support. You guys are just the loveliest bunch of people. :)**

**See you soon! **


	13. Chapter 12: Misplaced Affection

**Chapter 12 – Misplaced Affection**

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**I'm a satellite heart _lost_ in the dark . . .**

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The following morning, as promised, Charlie drives me to school.

Eating breakfast I loiter, in the hallway and outside of the car, I loiter. I start to tell him that he doesn't have to do this, but he silences me when he says, "You're my daughter. I'm taking you to school. Okay?"

But I'm not sure that it is _okay_.

It's not that I want to push him away; it's just that I'm wholly unused to this. I want things to be suddenly so easy between us, like they were before, but I know it can't be like that. It's just that fear and overwhelming panic I start to feel when the silence drags on just a little bit too long, the downturn to his lips and the sad tinge in his water coloured eyes . . . making me feel like I'm not enough, or that I've done something wrong _(because I'm still not her)_.

I love him to pieces, but I wonder if it's enough.

In the car I glance over at him periodically, but unlike yesterday he doesn't seem so far or out of reach. So when we arrive at school, I tentatively say, "Thanks, dad."

He turns to me and smiles, his eyes softening in the early morning sheen. "Anytime, kiddo."

I shoot him a brief smile before getting out and hurrying up the front steps of the school.

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School is . . . odd.

As soon as I step in, there suddenly seems to be an air of _existence_ around me that wasn't there before. It's not me; at least, I don't think it is . . . I hope it's just paranoia, stemmed from the fact I missed yesterday that's making me sketchy . . . and that people aren't really _looking_ at me.

When lunch rolls around, I hesitate outside of the cafeteria doors; torn between going in and running away.

Deciding to be brave and pulling determination from some not so hollow place inside of me, I push the doors open and step inside.

And regret doing so.

It's not immediate. I manage to get halfway across the hall before I hear my name being called. _Loudly_.

Startled, I lift my head just in time to see glasses situated over dark, kind eyes before I'm barrelled into. I let out an _oomph_, almost toppling over at the sheer force of her sudden, unexpected hug.

Bewildered, all I can think is: _I've been touched more in these past few days than in . . . forever._

She squeezes me tightly as my wide eyes dart all around, blinking against the onslaught of faces staring back at me.

"Um," I whisper, taking a step back and hoping she'll get the message and release me soon.

Thankfully, she seems to. She darts back as quick as she'd lunged forward.

"Sorry," she whispers back, sending me a tiny smile.

But I'm not really hearing her because I can feel so many eyes looking in our direction, and the pressure behind them is making me feel dizzy and much too light. My gaze darts from Angela's to everyone else's, panic mounting in my stomach and snapping at my spine until I stand painfully straight; unfurling when all I want to do is hide.

I spare Angela a panicked glance before turning around and bolting back out of there.

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I find solace in the empty space of the outside.

I lean up against the cold brick building; my heart thundering like a drum beat in my chest. I haven't been noticed in such a long time that when it does happen all I can think of is to flee – my instinctive reaction to attention, be it good or bad. Hiding is safe and so, so easy, but it doesn't banish the bad feelings; all it does it perpetuate their life span.

Logically I know this . . . but my heart isn't ruled by _logic_.

"Bella."

Wearily, I open my eyes once more to see Angela stood in front of me. Only now her expression is one of . . . guilt?

"I'm, um, sorry about that in there," she says quietly, her mouth forming a grimace. "I didn't mean to . . . to freak you out."

I shake my head slightly, the rough brick hard and unyielding behind me. "Not you," I manage to rasp out. I close my eyes briefly before reopening them. Her stare holds doubt and disbelief so I quickly amend, "Not so much." Pressing my hands against the brick wall – and drawing strength and stability from the fact that it doesn't buckle beneath me I say, "I'm just not used to . . . " I trail off, my hands gesturing pathetically in the air like she might understand.

But then her dark eyes gesture back at me, and I wonder if she just might.

Looking down, I watch her toe the concrete. "Um . . . I just wanted to tell you I'm glad you're okay. Your dad called my mom last night and – "

"What?" I say, my confusion cutting her off. "Why wouldn't I be okay?" And then, something else – "My day called your mom?"

"Uh, yeah," she says, her wide eyes blinking at me, looking so much rounder and bigger behind her glasses. "After you disappeared the other day . . . everyone was so worried." Her expression suddenly turns guilty again. "I didn't notice you were gone until we were back on the bus and heading back to school . . . I told Mr. Banner right away and we headed back to look for you but . . . " She drops her eyes to the floor again, her shoulders curling inward. "I'm sorry."

"That's okay," I tell her, feeling a little stunned, because it is. Frankly, I'm just surprised that anyone other than Charlie noticed at all.

She nods slowly at the ground before meeting my eyes again. "When we got back to school, your dad was there. He . . . I've never seen him look so . . . agitated?" She frowns. "He always seemed so reserved . . . but he looked really cut up about it, Bella."

I bite down on the inside of my cheek – _hard_.

"Anyway," she hurries on, probably at seeing the pained look on my face. "He asked us all when and where we'd last seen you but nobody, ah, nobody had." Her face twists again. "He yelled at Mr. Banner some – or quite a lot, actually . . . " she trails off, before her face transforms into something like a smile. "I didn't know a person could go that red."

I smile back wobbly in response.

"Before your dad left, I told him I'd rally some people together and we'd help look for you. He told me not to worry – that he'd find you – but we went looking anyway."

I blink back at her in astonishment.

"You did?" I ask, my voice almost inaudible.

She gives me a small shrug in response, toeing the ground again. "Yeah," she says, then hesitates. "I was, um, worried about you."

I gape at her. "You _were_?" There's an unspoken _why_ attached to my words, but she seems to hear it.

She smiles at me sadly, her fidgeting coming to a halt. "Just because you stopped being my friend," she says quietly, "didn't mean I stopped being yours."

I don't see her leave, but when I look up from the ground, she's gone.

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The rest of the day passes in a confusing blur.

I don't quite manage to return to my invisibility for the rest of the day – people still stare – but at least no one tries to talk to me.

My brief encounter with Angela has left my brain in a bit of a whir. It's not so much the idea that "everyone" was worried about my disappearance (I was pretty doubtful that that was true), just the fact that someone _other_ than my dad was.

Angela and I had been best friends before, I remember that much. But when we left middle school and entered high school, I was sure we just started to drift apart – as was to be expected, I guess. At the time I had thought it was normal and had accepted it so easily. At the time . . . I had thought we were just fated not to be friends anymore, not that I was fated to be alone.

But so many years later and the reality of it is like a slap in the face. In a way I guess I had rejected her, by rejecting everyone else.

Guilt swarms into me, colouring my insides in lurid shades of dark colours. Thinking about Angela has me thinking about Charlie – her guilty face morphing into his dropped shoulders. Sinking lower into my seat in biology, I wonder at how long I've been inadvertently hurting people.

I want to scream my frustration out into endless streams, imagining it forming long lines of tar on the white classroom floor. I thought by keeping people away, I was keeping myself safe. But my safety seems to come at the cost of hurting the people I care about.

Dropping my head into my hands, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. Aching, it for once coincides with the pain in my heart.

_I'm sorry_, I think.

_I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. _

"Bella."

Startled, I jerk my head up so quickly that my brain rattles. I blink for a minute, worried I've been called on to answer a question but –

"Class is over now." At my non-response, he continues, "Are you okay?"

My mouth drops open before snapping shut again. When I finally do manage to form a verbal response, it's comes out as a nonsensical sound.

Turning fully from the board he was wiping clean now, he drops his eraser on the desk, his forehead creasing. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday. As your teacher, it was incredibly negligent for me to have – "

I shake my head quickly, cutting him off. "It's okay. I mean, it wasn't your fault, sir. I was stupid enough to wander off on my own and I'm – I'm really sorry if my dad yelled at you, um . . . " I stumble off, clambering out of my chair quickly. I pull my bag over my shoulder before hurrying to the door. " . . . And I'm sorry if I got you into trouble with the school because it really wasn't – wasn't your fault so please don't blame yourself, um . . . "

I've backed almost all the way out of the room before his voice stops me.

"Bella," he says, his voice sounding oddly parental. His forehead has creased even further. "Don't worry about me. Are _you_ okay?"

Overwhelmed and suddenly so, so tired, I acknowledge his words with a single nod and a small "_I'm fine_," before I practically sprint out of there – before anyone else can worry about me.

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"Hey kiddo," dad says as I collapse into the seat next to him. "Good day?"

Turning to him, I try to give him my best convincing smile, but it still feels weak. "Yeah . . . I didn't have P.E. so I only fell over about five times."

My attempt at humour falls flat.

Charlie frowns, opens his mouth to say something . . . but shortly closes it again. His gaze scans my face, lingering on my eyes. But ultimately, he remains silent. Pressing his lips together and sighing, he nods and starts the car.

But I understand. Because sometimes, there's just nothing you can say.

It's simply enough that he's here.

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"How do you fancy a takeout, Bell?"

I peer over the couch at Charlie, already I start shuffling my homework into a pile. "I can – " I start, rising from my crouched position over the coffee table, where I'd started to do my homework. Usually I would have shuffled off to my room as soon as I'd come home, but the idea of all that silence is, for once, _unwelcome_. I don't want to think, and that's all I'll do in the quiet.

He raises his palms in the air, halting my rise. "No ifs or buts," he says, eyes so deep; insistent and pleading.

I nod slowly, sitting back down again.

He smiles and lifts his eyebrows.

"Um," I think. "Pizza?"

"Come on," he says, and his eyes twinkle. "You can do better than that."

His expression thaws some of the rigid muscles in my back, making it okay to relax again. "Pepperoni and mushroom . . . " I venture tentatively, " . . . with stuffed crust?"

"A girl after my own heart," he says jokingly with a wink, before disappearing around the corner.

I stare after him, and when I touch my lips, I find I'm smiling again.

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As I lay in bed that night, wrapped up in my duvet, I stare at my bedside drawer anxiously. I am torn between a deep desire to open it, so much so that it pulses in my chest, speeding up my heart, while a quiet voice in the back of my mind tells me to just leave it be.

Ultimately, my desire – my _heart_ – wins out.

Quickly reaching over, I yank my drawer open. My hand quickly finds what it's looking for.

Bringing it back to me, for a moment I just clasp it between my palms in the dark. My heart is thundering, but I almost can't bear to look. I can feel its silky softness tickling my palms . . . but seeing it will be different. Seeing it might just bring forth another thing I'm not prepared to deal with.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I close my eyes.

I drag its soft silk up my arm and then my neck, not stopping until I feel it on my lips. My heart is still beating crazily and I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing. But when I breathe in, I can almost imagine that I'm breathing in all that colour, and it's bringing me back, helping me out of my perpetual grey.

I feel less guilt, less pain. It's not all gone – it might never be – but somehow, this single, lone feather makes me feel a fullness that is almost synonymous with peace. And it does it so selflessly, like I'm not stealing misplaced affection . . . but receiving it because it's _mine_.

I fall asleep with burnt orange clutched in my palm.

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**A/N: Baby steps guys . . . baby steps. **

**I just want to say a big thank you to the _FicSisters_ who featured 'Alone' on their blog (the International House of FanFic) on Thursday! Thanks girls!  
**

**And as always, thank YOU for reading. :)**

**See you soon!**


	14. Chapter 13: The Natural Order

**Chapter 13 – The Natural Order**

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It had been five days, and Edward still had not moved.

His reasoning was thus: if he was able to stay away from Bella for a mere thirty days, he would be able to return home once more. Ultimately, this would be simple. He would just have to separate himself from her by moving as far away from her location as his jurisdiction would allow.

_Simple_. In theory, anyhow.

But in reality . . . things were not as easy as his head made them sound.

It proved almost impossible to remain distant from her when all he could think about _was_ her; climbing ivy hair and soft, smooth skin that smelt like nothing he'd ever encountered before – on earth or his own planet; the darkened hue of her eyes and the colour of her lips as they changed from blue to pink to red – the first time he saw her, and the last.

Every single moment played on a loop in his mind until he almost couldn't stand it.

But he would, because he _must_.

He knew that it was irrational to dismiss Jasper's words, and it wasn't so much that he _had_, but rather, that he was attempting to deny them. His friend's advice had been heard – deep down – but he simply wasn't ready to accept the inevitable yet.

Even if she was his, he'd been in her presence for less than twenty four hours. Surely that counted in his favour . . .

If he could just hold on for less than _thirty more days._

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_._

_._

A week passed for Bella like a drop of rain rolling down her bedroom window.

The first few days were slow, seeming to find delight in dragging out Bella's discomfort. It wasn't that she was suddenly engulfed in attention the next day at school, or that this new found interaction with Charlie grew more stilted the more it, well, _grew_.

Nothing is ever really so dramatic.

No, the dragging of time came from the sudden _newness_ of the places and people Bella found herself in and dealing with. It was so subtle, like the mere stroke of a painter's hand, but like such a tiny movement could create a masterpiece, such small, seemingly insignificant altercations in her life were still the _biggest_ challenges she'd faced in two years. And if she were really being honest with herself, even more so.

She felt like she was suddenly in focus, attuned to everything and everyone around her again. There was no more invisibility cloak to find shelter under, no more blank stare to send everyone else away.

There was just simply no hiding anymore.

She felt and saw it all. But just because it may have been necessary . . .

. . . it didn't mean she had to like it.

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"Found a new hiding place, brother?"

From high upon a mountain nestled in the cloud banks, Edward did not so much as turn his head to greet his feathered friend.

But Jasper was not deterred. Settling more comfortably on the flat of a rock, he said, "You keep running away from me, and you'll give me a complex. That does things to a non-human, you know."

Edward flicked his gaze from the smoky air in front of him only momentarily, but said nothing.

"Ah," Jasper said, smiling. "You see me, but your gaze is elsewhere. And for once, I do not believe it is reflecting inwardly, no . . . " he trailed off, pretending to tap his chin in thought. "I do believe you have left something behind, my friend."

Edward twitched, but still did not respond.

"But it is not lost," Jasper hedged, shifting a bit closer. "Should you happen to turn back and travel north, you might find that which you seek."

Finally growing tired of Jasper's taunts, Edward turned to him. "Why must you provoke me so!" he snapped, scowling darkly at his friend. "When you know my position, why must you carry on in such a way!"

Jasper's eyes widened at the sheer desperation in Edward's. He looked even more agitated than he had seven days prior. "It is _because_ you are in this position that I must," Jasper soothed, but his tone was at once insistent. "You are my friend, and I do not wish to see you suffer."

Edward turned away from him then, still scowling. His gaze glided back to white haze that settled around the two beings like wisps of smoke, or whispers of silk. "I am not," Edward said simply, hoping the quiver was only in his heart, and not in his voice.

Jasper regarded his friends profile with a frown, distress plain on his face. "I know what you are trying to do," he said, letting out a long sigh. "And it will not work."

Gritting his teeth, Edward managed to spit out, "I have been in an _animal's_ company longer than hers." Closing his eyes, he murmured, almost to himself, "Things can be halted if they are not continued."

He felt the pressure of Jasper's touch on his shoulder, but he shook it off. It was a consolatory gesture, and Edward hadn't lost yet.

There was silence for a minute, not even the sound of birds disrupted their quiet.

"I can say nothing you do not already know," Jasper continued, his voice a little glum. "And if I could, you would likely be inclined not to listen anyway." Sighing, he rose from his perch, but made no move to take flight. Instead, he stood, staring down at his friend. He wondered if he knew how much his outward appearance was affected by his inner turmoil – certainly, Jasper was sure he'd never get used to it.

But he had worsened. There was a perpetual tilt to his head and shoulders, like the weight of so many planets rested on his shoulders – not just his own. His vibrant wings drooped, feathers sprawling lankly over the jagged rocks. He noticed the puddle of orange that swirled in the wind and closed his eyes, a feeling of ultimate dread washing over him.

"You have been away from her for too long," Jasper said, his voice dropping. "If you do not return soon . . . " he trailed off, unable to say the words.

But Edward was unmoved. He stared, his gaze listless and empty in the wind. His eyes weren't dark or glowing, but a pale grey that reminded Jasper of death.

Abruptly frustrated, he stepped in front of Edward before crouching down. "The connection has already been _made_," he said angrily. "If you continue on in this manner, you will die. Do you comprehend me? There will be no _you_ left to return home." Swiping a pile of feathers from the ground, he thrust them in front of his friends face. "What more proof do you need?"

Edward's gaze flickered to him, but distantly. "Just thirty days," he mumbled, then frowned. "No, less than that now."

Jasper shook his head, suddenly furious. He wasn't listening_. Why did he never listen? _

"They will not let you back," he said in exasperation, his hands going to Edward's shoulders and shaking lightly. "You _know_ this. They will know. And they will forbid your return unless you return _with_ her."

Edward tilted his head, his forehead creasing. "Twenty three days," he said slowly, a sheen across his gaze, warping reality. "That's all . . . "

Barely restraining a frustrated growl, Jasper yanked his friend to his feet. "No more," he said sharply. "I shall not watch your stupidity kill you. We are going. _Now_."

Edward came back enough from his stupor to say, "What?"

Looking back at him, Jasper crossed his arms in a way he'd observed humans do in situations of high intensity. "We are travelling north."

Edward shook his head. "No."

Jasper's frown deepened. He couldn't very well force Edward to go. It had to be his decision, but how?

His eyes widened in realisation. _Or who_, he thought.

"Have you thought about the effect this is having on Bella?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "I know that it is pointless to point this out considering you _already know it_, but the connection is mutual."

Edward's gaze became a little clearer as he frowned. "She has not called my name," he said, a little sadly despite himself.

Jasper smiled a little, clasping a hand to his friends shoulder once more. "Given all the time I have spent observing the species, I can safely say that this is not exclusive to your Bella. Humans are not often forthright with their feelings." His face twisted unhappily. "Especially not the females."

Edward blinked at him, perplexed.

Jasper sighed, trying to find the right words to explain. It had been confusing for him at first, but he needed Edward to understand now, otherwise he might perish here.

"She might want you," he said, simultaneously softly and desperately. "But she might also be afraid . . . and sometimes fear can override all of our desires and wants because it is simply easier to let it do that." He watched Edward's face carefully as he explained, hoping he understood that he was no longer referring to only Bella. "You can want something so much – like friendship or peace or _home_ – until you become blind to all the things that make it up."

Edward's gaze flickered to him warily, and Jasper could sense him unravelling.

Proceeding gently, he said, "You have clung to the idea of returning home for so many years with more affection and reverence that I ever accounted upon you while you were there." At his words, Edward's eyes dropped to the ground. But he continued, persistent but careful, "I think you have romanticised our planet into something it's not, and never really was for you, because I think it gave you something to battle your loneliness – something to hope for."

"And now you believe it is being so selfishly torn away, yes?" Edward nodded in affirmation, but did not turn his gaze back to his friend.

Taking a deep breath, Jasper prepared himself for what he was going to say next.

"But you have no-one there," he said bluntly, causing Edward to flinch. Jasper ploughed on, despite the guilt he felt. "But now you have someone here. Edward," he implored, prompting his friends eyes to finally look back up at him. "You don't want a place. You want people. And your home is only made upon the people you are with."

Jasper's eyes pleaded with him as he said for the second time in seven days, so earnestly his voice carried the beats of his heart, "Your home is here."

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.

Just like the rain drop rushes down to meet the sill once it passes halfway, the week sped up as it neared its end.

I fell into a sort of understanding of the way things might be now. At school, I finally managed to work up the nerve to apologise to Angela. I had toyed with doing it via text (having charged my phone and found her number still programmed into it). _I'm sorry_ had hovered obnoxiously on the glowing screen for what seemed like hours before I'd ultimately gotten rid of it. It felt too cowardly and insincere. And not at all what she deserved.

So I had apologised, though it had taken me a few days after our talk to do so. Then she had hugged me again, and I had let her.

The past week with Charlie had been . . . okay. It wasn't as if we could jump from zero to one hundred in a matter of days . . . which is what I think we'd been trying to the day after I got back home. But things were _better_ than they were before. I didn't retreat to my room all the time, and Charlie seemed to work less – because he seemed to be around so much more.

It was . . . nice. A kind of comforting familiarity that made me feel relieved to come home after school, instead of empty.

Fulfillment felt so _different_ . . . but still, I couldn't help but feel as though something was missing.

It wasn't a precise thing, in particular; just this ache I'd get in my stomach sometimes that might travel up to my heart. It never really went away, but it spiked throughout the day – randomly, too.

With such sudden knowledge of so much feeling of the people all around me, I wished I could just shut it off, fill whatever was missing so I could stop _myself_ from feeling so much.

At night, I would lay in the dark with the lone feather clutched in my palm, and it would help a little. Of course I hadn't forgotten about _Edward_. The memory of him would come to me each time I was alone, and sometimes my mouth would even form the letters of his name, but then I'd become aware of what I was doing and get hot and red even though no one could see me.

I would turn away, but take his feather with me; trying to forget about him and pulling him closer all at once.

The more I thought, the more the guilt and gratitude swelled within me until it felt like they might burst out of my chest in competing fits of emotion. He had brought me in from the dark and nestled me into the warm, and then he had returned me home, and he hadn't even asked for so much as a thank you.

He had helped me, and I had only run away from him.

Closing my eyes now in the dark, I stroke the feather between my fingertips. I haven't been able to look at it in the light yet. For now, I let myself think that feeling it is enough, because on some level, it is.

Nightmares are kept on the peripheral, and something cold and hollow inside of me glows warm and amber – if only for a moment.

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* * *

**A/N: *rubs hands together in anticipation* You guys know what's coming next chapter, right? ... Edward/Bella actual INTERACTION! Yay! I've wanted to write more for so long now (I know it's only been three chapters since they last talked, but still), but it just didn't feel like the right time. Other things needed to be addressed, you know? But now... _(it's go time)_  
**

**Also, can I just say how much I adore Jasper (and Angela, incidentally). They're super-duper lovely in a I-wish-they-were-my-actual-friends kind of way. **

**See you soon!**


	15. Chapter 14: Silent Beginnings

**Chapter 14 – Silent Beginnings  
**

**.**

**.**

_**.**_

_**Now let silence speak.  
As that begins, we shall start out.**_

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**.**

**.**

So they go north.

For a short while, Jasper leads them, his wings gliding quicker through the air than that of his wilting friends. Edward lags behind . . . but not for long.

Once they reach about half-way, he suddenly seems to draw momentum from someplace deep within; his wings spread higher, wider – all but becoming a blur as he speeds past Jasper.

His blonde haired friend can barely contain his grin.

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Down below, in the dark haze of the evening, broken only by the soft-murmured smoulder of a bedroom window, a boy with burnt orange wings stood, and he waited.

Edward's eyes glowed hungrily in the night, like a human so full of thirst. But his gaze, as desperate as it was, was also unsure. It contrasted so significantly with the confident pull in his chest, beckoning him closer to the window, closer to _her_.

Yet the two would not reconcile. Oh, how he _yearned_ to be as his heart wanted him to . . . but this had never been an option for him – he had never contemplated it occurring until it did, and he felt wholly unequipped now. Despite the days that had passed . . .

He just _wanted_.

But then he heard Jasper's words as he hadn't before, and he knew there wasn't a choice. As soon as she had taken the steps into his secluded hollow, the decision had been made then and there – set in something that could never be erased or weathered, deeper even than any stone could proclaim.

It was in his heart.

His breath shuddered out of him as something flickered in the new-found empty of his insides. He was so used to the absence of it all, that when that something had physically tugged at him, he hadn't realised that it served not only to represent a new, painful loneliness . . . but one which was already inside of him.

_Go_, Jasper had whispered before he'd vanished.

And so, unable to wait anymore, he went.

His wings created a soft _whoosh_ in the still night air, stirring the branches that lingered, innocuous and benign, near him. An owl blinked its yellow eyes back at him when he reached the top, only mere fingers away from the pane of the glass separating him, and her.

He fell silently down onto a cold branch – though he didn't feel it – tucking his wings quietly into his back.

And this was the moment.

The moment that simultaneously had the pang inside of him pining and breathing; his skin prickling with strange feeling and for once, the overwhelming crescendo of silence in his mind, and heart.

His eyes closed in pure relief, but only for a moment.

Like two bright stars amongst an otherwise quiet constellation, Edward's eyes shone as he gazed through the glass. Even if he had not been in possession of such heightened senses, he was sure his eyes would still be able to seek her out in the dark, determined as they were – as _he_ was.

She lay on her back, her face uplifted towards the ceiling. His breath was caught and kept as he once more beheld her; the soft line of her jaw and the slope of her cheek, the gentle tip of her nose and the tender edges that blurred her lips. Gaping at her through the window, he heard a branch snap under his hand.

He wondered if his fascination with her was only due to the fact that he'd never seen a female up close before, or perhaps because . . .

He did not get to finish his thought.

"_Edward_."

His name tumbled from her lips.

And another branch snapped beneath his hand.

Immediately, he had stretched his arm out, laying his palm fully against the pane of glass. He felt his heart beat everywhere – in his chest, stomach and throat. His hand felt as though it were throbbing with a peculiar energy, and his eyes flickered to it momentarily before returning to Bella, mesmerized.

He had never heard anyone say his name like that.

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Inside, Bella lay unconscious and unaware.

In her dreams, she was running – but she didn't know what or who from. There was just this terrible panic in her chest, something trying to seize her. And so many _voices_. So many _faces_. They ran on a loop in her mind, a never ending series of frowns and tight lips, all culminating until it felt as if she almost couldn't _breathe_, until she thought she heard something like squealing tires and screaming, the smell of too much disinfectant and then –

And then nothing.

A gentle voice, and something warm encircled her heart, tucking her in and making her feel safe and sleepy. The darkness was dismissed to be replaced with a soft, hazy glow; dad smell and violets and picnics; kind eyes and burnt orange.

A smile lighted on her face, still unconscious, but aware, at least on some level, of the feather she clutched so tightly against her chest.

.

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Quietly, Edward opened the window.

He had waited probably five minutes, trying to convince himself that just to see her was enough. But it wasn't, not really. The tug inside of him seemed painfully aware of the glass cutting them in two, acting like it might dart out of his chest at any minute if he did not act, and quickly.

So he slid the window up, sliding his body inside in one smooth move.

The doubt was still there, lingering at the edges of his vision, but now that she had said his name it stood no real chance of deterring him. It grew faint as he took the steps to her bedside, his wings quivering nervously against his back.

Slinking down onto his knees, his lip caught between his teeth as he beheld her. His shining eyes flittered over her skin like a soft lamp light in the dark, and inside, he could register a sort of vague glow splayed out the panes of her skin, lighting her up.

His eyes widened as he watched her suddenly turn, without preamble. He remembered the last time she had turned, but that had been away from him. Now, her body curled towards him, her face so clear.

Feeling that pull inside of him so strong, he lifted his hand, and then a mere fingertip – brushing away the dark, soft hair that had fallen across her nose. He watched it wrinkle and twitch, and he found himself smiling widely for some reason.

His hand lingered on her, his thumb brushing just shy of her cheek. Recalling the last time he had touched her, all those days ago, he fought a feeling of unexpected bliss that surged through him. He felt everything doubled – then and now faded into one intense blur – until there was no separation, only this that had also been before.

When his eyes passed over her again, they narrowed and then widened. Carefully, his hand brushed her smaller one in the dark, feeling soft skin curled around a feather.

_His_ feather.

There was no denying it. Burnt orange sprouted out over the top of the palm she held near to her heart. _His_ heart leapt in his chest and his mouth grew dry. In the still he felt his eyes close, and then he leaned closer ever so slowly, until his forehead rested against hers.

"Bella," he whispered.

The feelings emerging inside of him were so confusing, so strange and new that he didn't quite know how to handle them. It was one of the reasons he'd fled from her – all of the complexities she caused in him had, frankly, _frightened_ him. He'd lived so long in solitude, and been more than fine with it, yet one look at one simple human had him in a tailspin.

They'd explained it, certainly. But he never expected it to happen to him. Never thought anything could feel like this.

Affection like wave after wave of foamy sea water washed over him and, unable to quell the urge any longer – not seeing reason _to_ quell it – he stood, only slightly, and lay down on the narrow bed next to her.

To his utmost surprise – and pleasure – no sooner had his back settled on the mattress than Bella had settled on _him_. He shuddered as her head dropped into the hollow of his neck; her breath stirring heat _on_ his flesh and _inside_ of it. He swallowed thickly when her palm – and his feather – settled on his chest, her hand searing, leaving an imprint he felt would never fade. He felt one of her legs twine with his – the duvet having been kicked to the bottom of her bed – and he thought he might combust from all the warmth she was drowning him in.

But right in that moment, he didn't think he would have minded.

Suddenly fighting to catch his breath, his own hand crept down, his fingers tracing hers before holding her hand tenderly. Everything about her was soft and small. He thought that if he touched her too hard, she would fracture.

So he held her like nothing he'd ever held before; he held her as he had all those days ago when he'd found her in the forest, looking so tired.

He held her _gently_.

Briefly, he wondered if she'd ever been felt like this, so carefully, or if this was as new for her as it was for him.

Blazing hot himself, but still so very aware of her fickle temperature, he quietly lifted a wing, curling it around her. His feathers splayed against her skin with reverence, seeming so grateful to be resting against her.

He gazed at her until his eyelids started to fall.

And then he slept, for the very first time.

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* * *

**A/N: So . . . I know I said interaction would be taking place this chapter . . . but Edward just sorta took over and couldn't get a handle on his feelings. Talking next chapter though, I promise!**

**Also, sorry this chapter was later than usual; I've been a bit under the weather. :( But I'm certain a lovely review would cheer me right up. ;)**

**See you soon!**


	16. Chapter 15: Trepidation

**Chapter 15 – Trepidation  
**

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_**The way I look is so fragile,**_  
_**yet here in my hand**_  
_**is an assurance of eternity.** _

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I'm dreaming, of that I'm sure.

People experience a myriad of feelings in their lifetimes; they go through unimaginable lows just to appreciate how unbelievably _good_ the highs can feel. Often, they come at cross-roads or middle roads where they grow unsure or weary. This ground is monotony – an everyday for some. And it's neither especially good or bad . . . it's not especially anything expect for what it is.

Some people can go their whole lives only experiencing minimal highs to accompany their minimal losses. For me, I had lost deeply, but for the two years since my life had plateaued onto that flat pane of monotony.

Which was why I was sure I was dreaming now.

I couldn't remember the last time I experienced that deep, heart-warming feeling that comes with the sudden realisation that you are happy – more than content. It can stem from lots of things, I guess, because there are lots of different kinds of people in the world. But for me it was born from the fundamental emotion – _love_.

Only, it's not as simple as that one word makes it sound. It's not something fleeting for people to toss around, and it's not something greedy or corrupt you seek selfishly. There's no point unless it's given freely, and it's misunderstood when it's used carelessly.

The love I remember keeps you warm down to your bones. It fills your insides with hundreds of thousands of tiny stars, so you're never alone in the dark. And separation never severs its invisible threads, only makes them glow in longing, alighting a passage for them to grow stronger, to go home.

Of course I love Charlie, and I'm pretty sure he loves me . . . but knowing it and feeling it are two very different things.

But right then I feel it; the innocence and the ease – the sincerity of _wanting_ to give and the feeling of fullness at being received.

So I do not hasten myself into awareness.

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I don't immediately open my eyes upon waking.

I feel so deliciously warm and comfortable that waking up is suddenly the last thing I ever want to do. So I lie there for an immeasurable amount of time – because mornings like these always pass so lazily. They are indefinite pockets of time that are steeped in a soft, hazy glow. No-one counts the minutes, hours or days that pass, because it doesn't seem like any time is passing at all.

A strange smile touches my lips as I bury closer into my bed, just feeling . . . _good_.

When I finally do open my eyes, I blink a few times, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing, and feeling.

There's something hot touching my nose, and in the strange darkened hue of the room I can't see much. When I flex my hand I feel something curl around mine, and when I shift my leg, I feel it knock against something which is distinctly _not_ bed-soft.

I frown, but I'm wrapped up in too much comfort to try to understand. There's still an early morning fog murmuring the edges of my reality, making everything smoulder softly. I can't seem to evoke a sense of _rush_ from any place; it seems my body is content to just let as is _be_.

Biting my lip, I shove the haze aside, reaching out instead for awareness. Focus is knocked reluctantly back into me as I push myself away from the heat.

When I pull back just enough, but not too far, my mouth falls open in shock; my first thought is that I must still be dreaming, but then something out of the corner of my eye shifts. And even though what I'm seeing _should_ be proving my dream theory correct, it actually does the opposite.

_Burnt orange._

I swallow thickly as my eyes fasten themselves to all that _colour_. I can see the span of it, the feathers spread out across my bedroom floor like they always were. But they stand out so vividly amongst my pale purple room, inadvertently marking themselves as alien . . . yet something in them inspires a sense of belonging so _hard_ that it makes my breath catch in my throat.

My wide eyes trail from the tip up and up until they reach the source. I find his back first, then his shoulder, his chest, his neck and then his face. Closed eyes and mouth parted, skin so pale it looks as though he's never seen the sun, lies . . . _Edward_.

I wait for the panic . . . but it never comes.

I feel my heart pick up pace in my chest as I glance down, noticing more orange, this time wrapped around _me_ and splayed across my skin like a pleasurable mixture of down and silk. Mesmerised by the depth of colour up this close, I lift a hand to feel it but find it anchored to his chest instead.

Still strangely breathless, I glance back up to his face.

A gasp spills out of me as I regard his newly animated features. His eyes, once closed, are now halfway open. _And looking right at me._

I swallow, and then swallow again. My mouth opens and closes like I might speak . . . but the room remains soundless. Outside, birds sing in the early morning air, but they seem oddly detached from the here and now, like they've been ripped out of space and time, or actually – like _we_ have.

I scrape the corners of my mind vainly, desperately searching to understand. I can only make sense of this if I can summon the panic, but it's nowhere in sight.

Then the silence is shattered.

But not by me.

"Bella," he whispers, his eyes still in that half-asleep, half-awake way. Blinking slowly, I feel his hand flex, and it makes me jump – the feeling of his skin on mine – so much so that the feathers clutching at me seem to quiver with the resounding aftershocks.

I clench my fist tight around the feather on his chest; feel my pulse throb in reply.

When I don't say anything in response – even though my mind buzzes with questions – I watch as his eyes open fully, revealing a gentle green that seems to sway in tandem with the trees outside. I feel the pressure drift away from my hand as his rises – the touch of his fingertip on my cheek before I even see it coming.

He drags it down slowly until it rests on the rapid beating pulse point in my neck.

And my breath _whooshes_ out of me.

"You said my name," he continues softly, one finger turning into two. He slides them back up to my jaw, skating up the slope of my nose before trailing them back down again.

_Just speak my name, and I'll be here._

"But I didn't," I blurt out, sort of breathlessly, just desperate to take my mind off of his touch. I can feel my skin heating up and I just _can't_ – "I would have remembered, but I . . . I _didn't_."

His gaze swivels away from the path of his fingers until it's wholly centred on mine. For a second I think I might regret speaking, because his eyes are stars, and they shine too bright.

Unexpectedly, they widen, making the green tumble out of control. I stare in shock as they transform, swirling and spilling like wet ink before seeping into a bright, shimmering gold.

I gape at him. And suddenly the only word I can think is – _beautiful_.

"You said it – last night – when you were . . . when you were sleeping," he insists, the gold in his eyes growing brighter. "And then I came in and I . . . I _slept_?" His words trip over each other, like he can't connect their meaning together.

"I slept with you," he finishes breathlessly; his gaze wide-eyed, innocent and riveted on me.

Speechless and abruptly overwhelmed, my palms push against his chest – clammy from so much heat. I can feel his wing tighten around my body, trying to draw me deeper and closer, but now I struggle against it – him – instead of mindlessly surrendering.

"Let go," I breathe desperately, pushing more earnestly against him. "Let me _go_!"

Maybe startled from the volume of my voice, I see him flinch back a little. The feathers retreat from me slowly, leaving me suddenly full of cold. But I pay it no mind as I quickly leap from the bed, stepping backwards until my closed door stops me from going any further.

My panic may be alarmingly absent, but my flight response will perhaps be forever ingrained into me.

"No!" I hurry, seeing him shift on the bed. Immediately he stills, his movement coming to a smooth cessation. At the sight of his wide eyes, I recall how similar this situation is – almost everything the same expect for the place. My _no_ has the same effect on him that my _stop_ did.

Suddenly full of guilt, I amend, "Just wait for a second." My voice wavers. "Please."

He nods, and I let myself look away from him.

I try to calm my heart, but it's not easy. He's _here_ – wings and all – and it's thrown me. It's not that I had started to doubt his existence – the proof was in my palm each night . . . it's just that I had doubted his _word_.

And I hadn't even consciously called him. I wondered, pointlessly now, if I would have ever worked up the nerve to.

"Bella." His call is quiet, almost a whisper, almost inaudible. But I hear him, so I lift my head slowly, my gaze snagging on his. "Are you well?"

My eyes fall closed for a second longer than a blink as more guilt hammers home. I keep acting like he's going to hurt me, but all he's done so far is care for me. I know, I know, I _know_ this. But he is, after everything, still a stranger. A bizarre, impossible, _kind_ stranger – but a stranger nonetheless.

Reopening my eyes, I nod quickly. "I'm fine," I say quietly, blinking down at the carpet. "You just – you just startled me."

Silence surrounds us then, settling around me like a blanket on a too-warm night. I keep my eyes on my feet, listening to the crackle in the air.

Finally he says, "I'm sorry."

I – once again – nod. I don't think my heart is ever going to settle into its normal rhythm while he's in the room with me, so, deciding to bite the bullet, I look up again.

He's still where I left him, and I feel a swell of gratitude rise up, mixing with the guilt. His gaze, for once, is not on me. Instead, he peers down at my bedspread, his fingers running along the purple.

Grateful for the sudden release of his intensity, I ask, "How did you get in here?"

At my voice, he peers up at me from his lowered gaze; the thick soot of his eyelashes creating a gentle sweep across the softened gold. "The window," he says, his voice feather soft.

"Oh," I reply faintly.

His gaze grows bolder, but his movements are careful; slow. "May I move now?"

"Oh," I say again, feeling another twinge of guilt. "Of course you can. Sorry. But please just . . . " Closing my eyes in irritation at myself, I leave the sentence hanging in the air – empty and unfulfilled.

His golden eyes swirl, growing darker. "You want me to stay away from you."

I open my mouth to reply . . . but remain silent.

_Yes. No. I don't know._

I swallow again. "Sorry."

But he just nods, shifting himself into an upright position. He hesitates a moment before standing. His gaze travels over me a minute before he drops his stare to the floor, his hair falling across his forehead. "You are afraid of me."

The raw tone in his voice seems to slice me in two, making my insides recoil in pain. "No," I insist, suddenly needing to assure him. "It's not that." _At least, not in the way that you think. _

He looks back up at me, his gaze seeming to waver uncertainly for the first time since I'd met him.

"But you do not wish to be near me?" his voice picks up at the end, his head inclining slightly to the left. "I do not understand," he says helplessly, his hands lifting to run through his hair.

"It's just," I start, desperately seeking words because his eyes seem so _sad_. "I'm not used to this," I gesture between him and myself. "And it's . . . it's . . ."

"It is scaring you," Edward finishes for me, his eyes flashing like something is suddenly dawning on him.

Quietly I say, "Yeah."

"Jasper said . . . " he murmurs, his gaze clouding before snapping back into focus. "I think I understand." He nods to himself, his gaze alighting on me once more. I watch as some as the sadness drains away; his hands dropping from his hair, and unwittingly find my tense muscles easing.

Closing my eyes, I think,_ Okay._

"I ran away," he continues softly, making my eyes snap open and find his. "After I had brought you home, I went as far from you as I could – as is permitted." His gaze darkens slightly before glowing golden once more. "I thought I could make it go away, because I was afraid, too."

My lip catches between my teeth as I listen. "But you're here."

He smiles slightly, one corner of his mouth curling up. "I am not afraid anymore." His smile widens when he adds, "And I have a pretty persistent friend."

Like I find myself mirroring Charlie's happiness, when I smile, I find myself mirroring his, too.

But then his countenance turns at once serious, his eyes following suit as they drench themselves; darkening. "I wish you would not fear me, Bella, in any capacity. But I . . . I understand why you do."

I feel a number of emotions flood my system at his words; relief, kinship, guilt, reassurance. And yes, there is still fear – because it can't just be dismissed so easily – but it seems less imposing now . . . as if by having him understand and accept it, it no longer holds the same formidable power.

"Do you wish for me to leave?" he asks hesitantly, and I think I can tell by his eyes that he doesn't want to go.

And I'm not sure that I want him to, either.

When I look down for a moment – because I'm not sure I'll ever get used to his warm gaze – I notice with a start that I'm still clutching his feather. I hadn't realised that when I'd leapt away from him I'd taken it with me. But it's still here, in my hand, still providing comfort even though I ran away from the source.

"No," I breathe, curling my fingers around burnt orange. "Please stay."

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**A/N: Yay! Progress!**

**Thanks for all the get well wishes guys! I'm feeling much better. :) Also, we reached (and surpassed) 200 reviews last chapter – with 23 reviews for last chapter alone! That's mad! Thank you all so much. :)**

**P.S. the quote above this chapter is from Rumi (as was the quote from the last chapter too), from his poem, "Calm in the Midst of Lightning." It just seemed pretty darn perfect for this chapter, if not the whole story. I wholeheartedly recommend reading him!**

**See you soon!**


	17. Chapter 16: Delicate

**Chapter 16 – Delicate  
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_**It's not that we're scared,  
it's just that it's delicate.**_

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"Can I ask you some questions?"

Somehow, our positions have reversed from what they were. After agreeing that Edward would stay, he'd asked if I would sit on the bed, and I had – mostly because he'd looked so anxious about my current position by the door – with only a moment's hesitation. In response, he had slunk down onto the floor at my feet, gazing up at me with wide, bright eyes.

"Of course," he replies. "Anything."

"Right," I breathe, biting my lip as I try to sought through the mess in my mind. His attention is disconcerting, so I look down at the feather in my grasp. Dragging my fingertip across its surface, I frown. The most obvious question lingers in my palm, but I'm not ready for that answer just yet.

I go for a decidedly safe one first.

"That day in the forest . . . is that your house?"

Nodding, he replies, "Yes." His gaze never strays from my face, and I think his eyes must be – among other things – the most honest I've ever seen.

"Um . . . " I want to ask him how he came to live there – _why_ he lives there, in pretty much the middle of nowhere – but I'm wary of prying. Perhaps it's daft to be concerned about such a thing considering all of the other things that have happened between us, but . . .

"It reminds me of home," he continues, inadvertently solving my question dilemma. "The forest does. And it was abandoned when I arrived, so I took up residence there." He hesitates. "I suppose when I say "yes", it is only in a manner of speaking, because it isn't really _mine_, and I never intended to stay there for long."

I tilt my head to the side slightly, picking up on the word that makes the most sense to me. "Where is your home?"

His gaze falters. "I thought it was very far away before," he says softly. His eyes dart down to my hands, to where I stroke his feather, and a hot flush of embarrassment creeps through me – stilling my hands.

When he looks back up at me, his stare feels weighty. _This is important_, I think.

"But now . . . now I think it may be very close."

For some reason, even more blood pools into my cheeks at his seemingly surface-safe words. I try to settle the sudden swell of butterflies that erupt in my stomach, but it's of no use – they won't be quelled.

I swallow thickly at his golden-glaze stare, which seems to be darkening by the minute – becoming the colour of toffee or whiskey; something sweet and warm.

"Uh," I stumble on, my gaze darting away from his. "How did you find me after – after I ran from the house?"

He waits until I look back at him until he answers.

"The view from the air is surprisingly advantageous." He smiles, stretching his wings out a little for emphasis. My gaze is as wide as ever when it lands on them; flickering uncertainly between disbelief and awe. "And I could hear you."

I blink, tearing my gaze away. "What?" I ask in confusion. "If you were all the way up in the air . . . how could you have heard me?"

His smile widens, and I imagine he bites down on his bottom lip to keep laughter from spilling out. "You are very noisy."

My eyes grow round . . . either at his suddenly jovial expression that has his eyes glimmering so brightly, or at the fact I think he may have just playfully teased me . . . I'm not sure.

"I didn't like it before," he continues, oblivious to my shock. "Everything here is so _loud_ all of the time . . . but I like the noises you make."

I flush once more, my mouth gaping open.

"And your colours." He leans forward, his eyes zoning in on my cheeks. He goes to touch me, but stops himself at the last second. "Your skin always changes – pinks and reds . . . "

Flustered by his proximity and words, I lean back some and blurt, "Your eyes."

He blinks twice, his gaze finding me again. "My eyes?"

"Yeah," I breathe, grateful at the change in topic and his movement backwards. "They, um, they change colour all the time. And they're so . . . so _bright_." It doesn't seem an apt word for the ethereal glowing that stems from his irises, but it's all I have.

"Oh." He leans back even more, his stare leaving me and finding the floor instead. "As far as I know, every one of our senses is heightened in comparisons to a humans . . . so the "brightness" you see is simply the result of this fact. There's a reflective layer in the back of my eyes that makes is easy to see things in dim light, or even full dark."

"And the colours . . . they change according to my current emotion, or mood." He looks puzzled for a minute, his brow furrowing in thought. "I cannot say I am sure of the advantage the latter provides."

"Oh," I say dumbly, my mind reeling. I find myself wavering at his use of the word _humans . . . _and pretty much everything that follows. It would be correct to assume I'm completely and utterly out of my depth . . . but beyond that I feel keen sense of _fascination_. "That's so . . . " I trail off, unable to find a word powerful enough.

Shamefully, I find myself settling on, " . . . cool."

His head snaps up, his gaze darting to me in surprise. "It does not bother you?"

I bite my lip, shaking my head.

He smiles then, and it looks almost shy. "I have ruminated on our differences so many times . . . but I think I was misunderstanding – always uncomprehending."

I want to ask him what he means . . . but I'm sort of terrified he'll tell me – terrified I might already _know_.

"Um . . . " I trail off, searching, my eyes widening when I realise something. "All of your senses? So . . . your sight, your smell, your hearing?"

He nods. "Indeed."

"Then I'm _not_ noisy. You just hear _too_ well."

He blinks at me, tilting his head to the side. "I do not think it is possible to hear _too_ well," he says, his voice daubed in a confused hue.

A slow smile tries to uplift my lips, but I stamp the desire down. "I guess not."

I'm acutely aware of myself then, and him. I wonder why it feels so easy to talk to him – easier even than my father or Angela, one whom I've known my entire life, and the other – practically. But then I think maybe this _is_ why. There's no previous expectation, or a present stifled with sorrow.

And he's letting me lead – I realise now that he always has.

"Bella." A call back to the room, back to him.

Refocusing my gaze, I give my head a little shake and look at him.

He stares at me for a second, his eyes passing over my features slowly, creating a disturbance in the airwaves that, when it collides with my skin, causes it to erupt into thousands of tiny goose bumps. A frown dents his forehead – his lashes and brows mingling together like tangled blades of grass. And when he speaks, his voice is deliberate, and I know he's asking for something more than surface-apparent, despite how innocent his words appear.

"Are you well?"

I bite down on my lip _so hard_ at the inflection in his voice. He's not the first person to worry about me, but he's the first person I don't want to lie to about it.

I shake my head. "Not all of the time," I answer honestly, my voice hushed like it's a closely kept secret.

I watch his face fall, his eyes suddenly paling, the gold draining away until just a faint wash of pale blue remains. He raises a hand before abruptly dropping it again, curling it tightly around his thigh.

"Hey," I say softly, because I don't want him to misunderstand. I almost touch him then – feel the need to in my bones – but I don't, don't, _don't_. "I'm not sick, not . . . not like that, alright?"

He nods slightly, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. "When I found you – before – you were shaking, and your lips were blue."

I grimace. "That was my own fault. I was stupid enough to go wandering off . . . but it's not that kind of, um, unwell…ness." I wrinkle my nose at my made-up word. "And thank you."

"You already said that."

"I know," I say, shooting him a tiny smile, ducking my head a little. "And I'll probably say it a few more times, too."

He smiles back, lowering his head to catch my gaze. "Your thanks is unnecessary, Bella, but gratefully accepted."

My breath parts from me, smudged in disbelief. "But you've been so kind to me," I protest.

He looks at me in confusion, his pale eyes filling up again. "It never occurred to me to be anything else."

Unable to stand it, my eyes fall closed, because his sincerity really is inconceivable. People are never just _kind_. I think of hidden motives or just flat-out lies . . . I suppose, in addition to strong morals, being the daughter of a cop had taught me to suspect people over trusting them.

I fall back onto my bed with a quiet _oomph_, feeling the soft mattress embrace me. I can't hear the birds outside anymore, and I think we really must have been ripped out of space and time – transported to another galaxy, or maybe just lost in one of the many rooms in the TARDIS.

After some minutes of quiet, I open my eyes – letting out a startled gasp when I do.

Edward stares down at me, his golden eyes wide.

"You mean here?" he asks, both a question and not, right before he lets his hand fall – hovering, but not touching – over my heart.

I gape up at him from my spot _under_ him for a moment, uncomprehending. I can feel the heat surrounding his skin alight on me he's so close – might think to count the lashes fringing his eyes if there weren't so many.

At my silence, he elaborates, "When you said you were not well all of time . . . you are unwell, here?"

His gaze is so earnest and open, entreating me to _just answer this_ so I might receive something in return – perhaps something as equally invaluable as my trust.

I swallow thickly, wetting my desert-dry throat. And again, I find myself being honest when I say, "Sometimes."

He softens in reply, his hands becoming pliable and gentle next to me. His wings form a sheltering waterfall of burnt and dusky orange, lightning yellows and blood-red burgundies, and his eyes swim warm like melted butter; dropping onto my skin as sweet kisses do – dusted with honey and sugar.

Finally, he whispers, "I understand."

And his words are so innocent – always so surface apparent – but really they are anything _but_.

"Thank you," I whisper back.

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**A/N: They've still got quite a bit of talking to do yet, so don't fret! I just like pushing the suspense to the limit. ;)**

**...And yes, that was a Doctor Who reference I snuck in there. ;)**

**See you soon!**


	18. Chapter 17: The Reveal

**Chapter 17 – The Reveal  
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Edward gazed down at his human, his heart beat resonating so loudly that he imagined the walls of her room pulsed in time to its chaotic rhythm. He had never felt connected to anyone before – so in tune that he might mistake their being for his own. Yet here she was, and within a matter of days she had changed everything.

But Bella was the one thanking _him_ . . . and that was all wrong.

He opened his mouth to tell her . . . but the words were too deep to communicate. Oh, how badly he wanted to. But he knew she was scared – she had told him so – and the last thing he wanted to do was add to that fear.

He had run away to escape his.

He only hoped she proved braver than he.

So slowly, and with great reluctance, he eased off of her. His wings folded against his back as he took a couple of steps away, watching closely as her hand hovered where his had had been only moments before.

Almost in response to her touch, he felt his heart throb in his chest, and he lifted his own hand; curling his fingers slightly like it might seep from his skin at any moment. It would pool in his palm, but it would remain kept until he offered it to her. And he would, because he knew . . . there was to be no living without her now.

When she finally sat up, he noticed how she avoided his eyes. Guilt welled up inside of him immediately.

"I am sorry," he said softly, not wanting to startle her. "I keep forgetting myself."

Her eyes darted to his, and she frowned. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated, finding his hand drifting to his neck where he proceeded to pull at the hair at his nape. It was peculiar how many human habits he seemed to use in her presence. "I know my close proximity is discomforting to you, but I seem to be having trouble staying away." More tugging. "Please do not fear me."

Bella watched Edward for a moment, and he thought the time stretched on indefinitely – the way her dark, dark eyes passed over him in gentle sweeps felt like the sweetest torture. But then she inhaled deeply – her chest expanding – and stood, taking small steps towards him until she seemed so very near, but not nearly as close as he wanted.

His breath zigzagged and his heart rate spiked when she reached out and curled her tiny pinkie finger around his own.

He stared at her and she stared back, her eyes wide and warm and beautiful.

That single word made his breath catch. _Beautiful?_

Music was beautiful, the forest-filled green and the quiet night sky were beautiful. But he had never thought a _person_ beautiful before.

It wasn't so much the outward glamour that made them shine, but rather their inner peace that evoked some feeling in his otherwise fleeting heart – a modicum of content that sent a tingle of pleasure shooting up his spine.

But Bella _was_ beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Because she shone like all the stars merged into one and drew him in with a warmth that outdid the comfort of the forest every time, and when he touched her, she felt like the greatest symphony he could never play.

When he looked at her, there was exhilaration and elation, and the tingle was instead a storm; electricity sparking every facet of his skin, making him feel so, so _alive_.

His mouth parted in revelation, but before he could speak, she said, "I think you're growing on me."

Blinking, he shook his head slightly to clear it, but his eyes still caught on her bitten-down lip before he peered down, looking quite intently at their interlinked fingers.

"I – " he began, but stopped quite suddenly when he heard a loud growl emit from the tiny human in front of him.

His eyes widened, because he was quite sure she hadn't spoken.

He felt her skin warm the air around him a moment before a rosy hue flooded her cheeks. He gazed at her in delight as her colour changed, finding himself helplessly leaning forward to watch the fascinating transition.

"Uh," she stumbled, teetering back slightly like she might fall. Reflexively, both Edward's hand (the one not holding her tiny finger), and his right wing, shot out to steady her. His palm seemed to hum from the contact, and his wing curled over her shoulder, his feathers brushing the softness of her neck.

At that moment he was so very glad that he was "growing on" her, as she'd so put it, because he really was hopeless at keeping his distance.

Her bottom lip disappeared into her mouth. "Sorry," she whispered.

He shook his head slowly, hoping she understood she never needed to apologise to him. "What was that . . . that noise?" he questioned.

"Oh," she muttered, still all red and lit up like a poppy, or a rose. "That was just my stomach . . . I guess I'm hungry."

His eyes widened; travelling over her like he might spot something wrong. "You should eat something then," he urged, recalling how long it had taken him to respond to her need of heat last time. He wouldn't be so obtuse _now_.

She nodded, but for a moment neither of them made a move.

She was so warm and bright – Edward felt like a moth, and she, a blazing flame, or _inferno_. His fingers flexed against her back as he stared into her deep, deep eyes, melting their worlds away until it was just her and him.

This closeness was something he had never encountered before her, and he wondered if it was normal to want it all of the time, if Jasper did with his human. He would ask later . . . but for now he found himself drawing her nearer still. His left wing slowly spun away from his body until it hugged his right against her back – overlapping until she was surrounded by all of his burnt orange.

He swallowed thickly at the sight of her, wrapped up in so much of him . . . and his heart beat – which never quite plateaued in her presence – rocketed a bit higher.

But then a sound drifted up to them from below, and the spell was broken.

Bella pulled away.

He let her go, feeling something at once sever and snap in his gut. Wincing, he felt a swell of cold wash over him, but tried to push it away – reaching for warmth in her evading eyes.

He watched a tremor skirt along the soft edges of her skin before she closed her eyes briefly, and knocked it away.

She exhaled heavily, but didn't quite meet his gaze as she uttered, "Let's go eat, then."

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Edward followed his beguiling human down the stairs.

His eyes flittered this way and that as he took in their surroundings – noticing everything and anything; the walls was pale and flowered, and there were dusty photo frames suspended on them. Some held Bella, some showed others he didn't recognise – but who appeared frequently in all of the photographs.

The ceiling was rather low and the plaster formed swirls like delicate roses. The carpet was a neutral beige that felt soft but worn under his feet, and there were various plug sockets around that looked like they were ready to leap from the walls at any given moment.

He felt the smooth wooden banister beneath his fingertips and heard the creak of the stairs as he stepped; processing it all within a matter of seconds.

Once inside the kitchen, Bella started rummaging around in lined white cupboards; pulling open drawers and a medium sized fridge in the corner of the room. Meanwhile, Edward stood in the doorway with his heart beating in tandem with the slight quiver in his wings.

This was her _home_.

"Would you like some cereal or tea or something?" she asked, swivelling to face him. "Or if not I could, um, make you some French toast or eggs or – "

"Bella," he said softly, causing her to break off. He took one small step closer, another, and then another until he stood right in front of her. He pushed the "cereal" box she held out back to her gently. "You need not worry about me." Although, something warm had rushed into his chest at the thought that she had been. "Please eat. You are hungry."

She blinked up at him; her eyes like that of a doe he'd seen in the forest only once before.

She nodded slowly, clutching the box to her chest. "Yeah, okay, I'll just . . . " He watched as she set the cereal on the counter before stretching up to grab a dish. Seeing her struggle, he reached up quickly and pressed the bowl into her hand.

She smiled at him shakily. "Thanks."

He smiled back. "You are most welcome."

Once Bella sat down at the small table, Edward followed suit. He watched her closely as she ate, eyeing the small pieces of "cereal" warily. He didn't think they looked appetising at all.

"I'd really feel better if you ate something, too."

Edward glanced up quickly; belatedly realising he'd been watching her mouth the entire time. He blinked at her curiously. "I am well," he assured her. "I do not require nutrition from your food."

She blinked at him then, the spoon coming to a stop in the ceramic with a faint _clink_. He only recognised the cutlery and china from the items he'd found in his temporary house – which had been explained to him at a later point by Jasper when he'd queried their purpose.

"What?"

"I do not require food," he repeated, thinking maybe she hadn't heard. "Please." He gestured to her bowl again, but her spoon remained still.

"How – " She blinked, her brow furrowing in what he thought to be confusion. "How can you not need to _eat_?"

"I was given something before I came to earth. It was meant to sustain me until I needed to leave . . . " he trailed off then, because the idea of leaving suddenly filled him with a sense of sorrow and longing so intense that it momentarily shook him. He would not leave now, he knew, not unless . . .

He watched as her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, her eyes widening. "I think . . . I think we need to talk some more." She swallowed thickly. "There are still things we need to . . . "

He nodded slowly. "I will answer your questions, but please." He nodded again towards her bowl. "Your stomach seemed quite insistent the last time. You must need the sustenance."

Her cheeks bloomed pink again, and she tipped her face forward; her brown hair falling like a rich waterfall, skimming her nose and lips. His wings fluttered against his back, suddenly itching to feel it between his fingers again – to stroke it away from her face so he could watch her grow rosy.

She lifted a hand, spooning some of the food into her mouth before lowering it again. He watched as stared down at the table, her eyes tightening around the corners before looking up again. "I guess it would make most sense if we just . . . " she trailed off, inhaling deeply before blurting, "You're not human."

"No," he agreed after a beat. "I am not."

She seemed to deflate before his eyes. "Oh," she breathed, her eyes flittering over to his wings. "So you're an – an . . . _alien_?"

A slow smile spread across his lips. "From your perspective, yes. But from mine, _you_ are the alien."

Her eyes were suddenly so wide and fathomless, that he thought if he looked any closer, he might fall in.

After a long silence ensued, Edward grew worried and asked, "Bella?"

"Yeah, um . . . " Her hand gripped the spoon tight. "I guess I already . . . but at the start I guess I thought you were some kind of . . . of angel, or something." Her pale cheeks flushed a little. "But when you said that Forks reminded you of home, I didn't think . . . "

"Angel?" Edward repeated in confusion. He couldn't recall the word to memory from his teachings, and he'd never heard Jasper use the term. "What's that?"

"Oh." Her eyes widened. "Nothing, really. I mean . . . probably not."

He nodded, though he wasn't sure he understood.

She once more lifted the spoon to her mouth, chewing slowly before she asked, "So, uh, what's your planet called?"

"Zefdatris."

Bella blinked, her eyes owlish.

"It is not in your solar system."

"Right," she uttered. "Right. So you're from another galaxy."

He nodded. "That is correct."

She leant back in her chair, dropping her spoon. For a moment she just gazed with unseeing eyes at the table top.

"Are you alright?" Edward asked, leaning closer like he might touch her, but didn't. "We can continue this later if – "

"No," she interrupted him quickly, picking her gaze up off the wood to meet his. "It's fine. I want to know."

He eyed her warily. "If you are sure."

"Your . . . your _wings_," she continued hesitantly, and they unfurled from his back and spread as if they had been summoned, which in a way, he supposed, they had. "Um . . . you said earlier that all of your senses were enhanced . . . " He watched her nose wrinkle and smiled curiously at the creases. "What's the advantage of having them?"

"Our world is full of forests," he said, leaning closer despite himself. "We do not live on the ground as you do, but high up, which is why we need them. Our homes sit side by side with the tree tops, and they are strong, solitary structures – as clear as glass but much stronger." His voice simultaneously softened and strengthened as he spoke of it. Perhaps Jasper was correct when he said he had no one there . . . but it had been the only home he'd ever known, so he couldn't dispel the sense of melancholy or longing that inflected his tone.

"You miss it," Bella said softly.

Edward nodded and replied, with equal softness, "I do."

After a minute of quiet, Edward cleared his throat – another strange human gesture – and said, quietly, "Do they bother you?"

Bella's eyes widened slightly. And he waited, nervous, as her eyes danced over his feathers once more. He could feel them quivering against his back, and self-consciously curled them around his shoulders. It was strange, he had never before been worried about how his appearance might be perceived, but he was suddenly acutely aware of their differences.

And it made him worry.

But then his human shook her head, and he relaxed a little.

"No," she breathed, her eyes soft and true. "I think they're sort of, um . . . beautiful, actually." Two spots of red rouged her cheeks as she glanced away from him; her fingers drawing patterns on the table top.

In response, Edward felt his mouth grow dry. _Beautiful_. That word again. He knew of beautiful things and he knew Bella was beautiful . . . but to hear it ascribed to _himself_ and by her . . . well. He wasn't quite sure the reason behind the sudden rapid thumping humming through his veins or the insistent tugging in his chest and stomach – this time not painful, but bordering on something that felt _almost_ pleasurable, like a desperation being _almost_ satisfied – but he was so certain that he didn't want the feeling to dissipate any time soon.

"Uh, earlier you said "Jasper" . . . are there others like you, here?"

He shook his head quickly, trying to find focus again. "Yes . . . Jasper is also a Zefdatrite. He was assigned to this jurisdiction with me."

He glanced up to see Bella watching him closely. "And he's the "persistent friend" you mentioned before?"

Edward's lips twitched. "Indeed."

Her brow creased then as she looked down; her fingers drumming on the wood. "Can you explain what you meant when you said you were assigned here? By whom? And before you said you went as far away from me as was "permitted."" Edward watched her frown deepen, and when she looked up, her eyes caught the light filtering in from the window and seemed to shine. "It's like you're restricted or . . . " She shook her head, lifting a finger to tug on a long, brown strand. "But then I don't understand why you came here."

Edward watched her hesitantly, noticing how agitated she seemed to have become. "I did not come here by choice." He spoke quickly in an attempt to alleviate her perceived distress. "I was sent here by the elders of our society. So when I speak of assignments, I mean that they assigned me to this particular place, and I am only allowed to travel so far out of my chosen jurisdiction, which is what I meant when I said I went as far from you as is permitted. I could literally only _go_ so far."

Her eyes widened slightly, and she waited a beat before she continued, "But why did they send you here – to earth and to this place, in specific?" Her brow furrowed as her lip was once again taken captive between her teeth.

It was Edward's turn to hesitate now. Again, he found himself concerned about how he would be received by her.

"All Zefdatrites are sent to Earth when they come of age . . . and they are sent in the hope that they will one day return . . . but their – _our_ – purpose in coming here is inherently very simple."

Bella nodded. "So what is it? – Your purpose?"

His wings shuddered nervously against his skin. Something inside of him told him that she wouldn't like what he had to say next.

"Our race is dying," he said, finally. "We are sent to Earth in order to rectify this fact."

He watched as her frown deepened before clearing as her eyes grew round. Her mouth parted slightly in shock, before she said, with voice more air than substance, "You come here to . . . to _reproduce_?"

He nodded slowly.

If possible, her eyes grew even wider, and so suddenly that he flinched, she stood; her chair scraping across the floor as she pulled away. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound followed. But he waited patiently all the same, starting up at her with glowing golden eyes that he couldn't tell were rapidly draining of colour.

"But what – " she started, sounding short of breath, though she stood as still as a sentinel. She swallowed thickly, and when she spoke her voice was small, like she was afraid of his answer. "What does this have to do with me?" Her nails dug into her palms at her sides, her face full of colour. "Why are you here – with _me_?"

Edward heard his heart resonate in his ears just as he felt it whir rapidly under his skin. The look on her face distressed him greatly – the tell-tale signs of fear he could see creeping into her once-warm brown. She was terrified.

He wanted to stand, to reach out and touch her – to abate her agitation – but he remained frozen. He had a feeling that if he did, it would only make matters worse. And the words he had to say next would no doubt do a fine job of worsening the situation without any other input from him.

So with palpable relief at finally being able to say it, but also great distress at the horrified look on her face, he told her in tones both elated and hesitant –

"You are my mate."

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**A/N: Dun, dun, dun!  
**

**SO. Most of you already guessed that Edward was an alien, but there ya go anyway. I did toy with the idea of making him an angel, but in the end I went in this direction. I hope that this chapter answered some of your questions, and that I didn't disappoint anyone too badly with them!  
**

**"Zefdatris" is of course totally made up. It's actually an anagram of "fez" and "tardis" ;)**

**See you soon!**

**P.S. this was the longest chapter to date! By a good 700 words or so, too. *throws confetti* Woo!  
**


	19. Chapter 18: Consequences

**Chapter 18 – Consequences**

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I can do nothing but stare at him in the moments that pass. I'm waiting for him to laugh, to tell me he's joking, to disappear into a plume of smoke coloured orange and red, or to suddenly, abruptly _wake up._

But none of these things happen.

Instead, we simply remain here.

I'd had trouble processing what he was telling me initially, as most likely anyone would do. But after a while I thought I'd found some solid ground, a little shaky underfoot, but solid nonetheless. After all, why should it be so strange that alien life existed out there? It was probably arrogant to assume that we were the only ones in such a vast universe.

But as he continued he simultaneously made more and less sense. I could fathom his existence – as bizarre as it might have been – but I couldn't fathom his unprecedented involvement _here_.

Seven continents and one hundred and ninety six countries. So why _Forks_?

Seven billion people in the world. So why _me_?

I hadn't wanted to know.

But how could I not ask?

My mind shivers as a swell of cold rushes through, sheeting everything in snow. I feel overwhelmed and smothered in disbelief – drowning in the compacted cold that flutters down to my heart, like snowflakes spiralling to earth.

But I'm so many miles above ground right now.

I stumble back a few steps until my fingertips grip the edge of the sink. I try to hold onto that; the feeling of something unyielding beneath me. But the world has gone topsy-turvy, and I'm finding it harder than usual to regain balance.

"N-no," I blurt out, my heart beating so fast it causes my tongue to trip. "You . . . you must be mistaken."

He eyes me cautiously for a long minute, and his eyes seem to be battling with themselves; a warm amber slowly draining, only to spark and spiral again; filling up before paling once more.

_Spark, spiral, drain._

_Spark spiral, drain._

Holding my eyes, he slowly shakes his head. "I am not," he says – words that sound so small but which fight to be so much greater than their three syllables. "I can feel it like I've never felt anything before." He hesitates a moment before adding, "Can you not?"

I'm shaking my head even before he's finished speaking. I tell him, "No" without checking to see if it's a lie first.

_Do I feel it?_

It doesn't matter now.

"I can't – " I begin, but my voice catches in my throat. _I can't do this_, I think. But the words refuse to tremble past my lips; they cling onto the sides of my throat, stubborn, like I can't say them because I really don't _want_ to. I know I can't comply with his reason for coming here . . . but I also know I can't tell him to leave.

_What if he never comes back?_

And then –

_What if he does?_

I look at him until I can't anymore, until my eyes drop and then close like by doing so I can reconcile the dividing parts of myself back into one whole. I can _hear_ the silence it settles around us so thickly, but I'm glad of it. I'm not sure I could deal with anything more he has to say.

When I open my eyes again – both worried that he'll have disappeared and that he won't have – I deflate a little bit more inside.

He's standing where once he was sitting – completely stock still, like he'd been carved out of stone. His soft wings looked wilted as they curled over his shoulders and his brows were low. But it was his eyes that cut to my core.

They were sad. More than that – _pained_. I had seen that look from Charlie, and before that, Renee, for so many years that I knew it instinctively. And every time it had made my stomach curdle, my heart ache, and a deep well open up inside of me – and every time I saw that look it would pour, and that well would fill up a little more each time.

But I had never been the _cause_ of such eyes before, only the result.

Now I was the reason, and I didn't like it.

"I'm – "

"Please," he whispers, and his eyes are drowning. "Please don't."

I stop abruptly, biting down so hard on my bottom lip that I taste blood. _Sorry_ tingles on the tip of my tongue, but never forms a fully-fledged word. I _am_ sorry. Sorry that he was sent away from the home he misses so much, sorry he was sent here, to me, and that I can't help him.

I watch his eyes fall, dropping down to the floor.

I raise my hand to my chest, feeling the well flood. _I'm so sorry._

With a quick breath, he lifts his head. His eyes have stopped swirling to be replaced with a pale, cool blue. I recall what he said about them reflecting his emotions and I almost hate the fact that his eyes actually _are_ the window to his soul, because it only allows me to see ever more clearly the pain I cause.

"I know that it is your wish for me to leave you alone now," he says, his voice quiet and low. "But I cannot." His hands form tight fists at his sides. "I _tried_."

I blink back the sting in my eyes, my racing pulse at odds with my cold skin. "Edward – "

"I will go," he continues on, as if I'd never spoken, taking a step away from me. "I know I cannot stray far . . . but you shall never have to see me again."

He looks at me then. I can feel his eyes passing over me one last time, like he's trying to memorise a picture. I stare at him helplessly in reply, my skin prickling up partly because of his gaze, and partly because something awful is trembling just under the surface of my skin.

And then he's suddenly right _there_. His cheek on mine, his hand in my hair – as soft and light as feathers and air. He takes a breath – so deep I feel his chest brush mine.

And just as suddenly, he's gone.

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.

"Hey, Bells."

"Hi dad," I call back from the living room, where I've methodically been working on assignments since Edward left. When he rounds the corner, I smile at him, or give him my best try. "How was Billy?"

He sets down a brown paper bag and a pack of beer on the table. "He's good," he says, a little bit sheepish. "Sorry I took so long. He had last night's game recorded and, well . . . I couldn't say no."

My smile turns a little bit more genuine.

"That's okay," I reply. And then gesturing to the paper scattered around me, "I've just been doing some work."

"Well . . . I guess you're due a break by now then." He peers down at his watch. "How about the diner for some lunch?"

"Sure." I nod. "Um . . . just give me ten minutes."

I finish the paragraph I'm writing and go upstairs to change. I keep my mind steady, on things so apparent and on the surface. I think about which assignments I need to complete and for when, whether it's going to rain soon and what I might cook for dinner.

I absolutely don't think about Edward.

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Once inside the diner, I find my mood elevating slightly.

We used to come here every Saturday. It was a treat turned ritual which we never broke, although after Renee stopped coming – instead opting to stay at home – things were different.

And then we stopped coming altogether, after.

But unlike with the lake, I'm not suddenly bombarded with overwhelming memories that force me to dwell. There are people here, though not a stifling amount, but enough that they create a hum that blots out the disposition to fall. Instead, I feel comforted by the familiar warm glow the cheesy retro signs create and the gentle swell of music that sweeps through the room rather than disarming it.

We are greeted by a server, led to a booth and given menus with a smile.

It feels so familiar – almost as if we never stopped coming – and it makes my heart ache a little, but a good sort of ache, the kind that reminds you you're still alive.

"Cherry cobbler," I say in surprise, once I've opened up the menu.

Charlie's eyes meet mine across the table.

.

.

.

"_Can I have dessert first, daddy?" I look up at him with big, round eyes – 'cause he was always saying how hard it was to say no when I looked at him like that._

_He laughs, leaning across the booth to me. "But don't you want your pasta first? You love pasta!"_

_I shake my head stubbornly. "I don't wanna wait."_

_He squints his eyes at me, humming so loudly it makes me giggle._

"_Okay," he finally says with a big sigh, before whispering, "but you gotta promise not to tell momma, alright?" His eyes get all big as he makes a zip sign across his lips, and then reaches out his pinkie for me to shake._

"_Okay," I giggle, copying him, then take his finger and shake real well, like he showed me. "I won't tell momma."_

_When the lady comes to take our orders, daddy asks for two cherry cobblers._

"_Yay!" I bounce in my seat. "You're having one, too!"_

_He grins back. "I don't wanna wait, either."_

_._

_._

_._

I look down but I'm smiling, because the memory is a happy one.

I hear Charlie clear his throat, and when the waitress comes around to ask for our orders, he doesn't even need to ask, because he already knows.

"Two cherry cobblers, please."

And when they arrive, they taste as good as Charlie's syrupy pancakes.

.

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.

Initially, the ride home is relaxed.

I slink low in my seat as I stare out of the window. The radio is turned onto a quiet lull, a hazy singer's voice filling the air in the cab. I peek out of the corner of my eye at Charlie, and something warms in my chest at how at ease he seems.

Less than a month ago, this situation would have seemed impossible.

But then slowly, the comforting feeling is displaced.

The ache I'd been feeling for a while now suddenly stops being so temperate. I had started feeling a discomfort at the diner, but I had brushed it off, putting it down to indigestion or something equally as benign.

I shift in my seat, subconsciously lifting a hand and placing it on my stomach, like I might be able to draw the sharp ache away with my touch.

"You alright there, kid?"

I turn towards Charlie, and his eyes widen. "I just feel a little sick," I breathe, suddenly feeling both too hot and too cold. "The cobbler?" I offer.

He shakes his head. "I feel fine."

"Oh." I swallow thickly. "Maybe I'm just getting car sick, then."

He glances at me warily. "You haven't been car sick a day in your life."

I push against my stomach, rolling down my window and sticking my head out. The cold pushes against me like a thick fog, and it cools the heat on my forehead and cheeks, but it doesn't penetrate any deeper than that.

When I pull my head back in, I don't feel any better.

"Do you need to go the hospital?" Charlie's voice cuts through the ache. "We can – "

"NO!" I practically yell, and wince from the loudness of my own voice. Charlie looks me over worriedly. "Um . . . it's fine, really." I take a breath as another pang jolts through me and quickly lie, "It's just a stomach ache, that's all."

Charlie frowns at me, clearly not convinced, but doesn't argue.

.

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.

"I'm just going to go lie down for a while," I say when we get home, kicking off my shoes without bothering to untie them first.

Charlie's boots clomp through the hall behind me. "Are you sure, Bella?" he asks, and I turn around to face him. He's still frowning, and his mouth his down turned beneath his moustache. And I know that he's not going to drop this.

So I take a deep breath, and I lie.

"I think it's just . . . it really _is_ a stomach ache and . . . and it's sort of inevitable." I can feel my cheeks heating in embarrassment, but I don't know how else to reassure him enough that he won't worry. "I'll just take some painkillers, and I'll be fine."

I watch as his eyes grow wide as saucers when realisation sinks in. "Oh," he coughs, lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck. "Um . . . sure. You go on up and lie down." His hand reaches out to awkwardly pat my shoulder, his cheeks pink. "Just, uh, shout if you need anything."

I nod quickly before hightailing it up the stairs. When I get to my bedroom, I lean my back against the door in relief.

But then my stomach spasms again, and the relief dissipates.

I go to the bathroom and really do take some painkillers before dressing in my pyjamas gingerly.

The ache is not unlike cramps. It's low in my abdomen and a deep, unending pain. But it's also different. I've never had them this intense before or so ruthlessly. There was always a brief minute or so when my muscles could relax, but with this it's constant shock waves of little agony.

Feeling a little pitiful, I curl in on myself on my bed. I try to breathe through the pain, try to distract my mind by thinking of other things. I will the medication to kick in, but I watch the day go until the sky is a darkening grey, and the pain stays.

I groan, sweating, shoving the sheets off of me for the millionth time.

"Oh, please," I gasp to no-one, feeling it seize up my stomach in its iron grip – twisting it until it's an unrecognisable mass. "Please please _please_."

I want to stand, to see if walking will help, but my legs feel like jelly, and I'm not all that certain if I fell over I could get back up again.

So I stay on my too-warm bed, twisting and turning and curling until I feel so, so tired.

Then I hear Charlie's muffled voice, calling my name. It makes me suddenly still, and when I hear his footsteps on the stairs, I hold my breath.

The door opens.

"Bella?" he whispers.

I swallow, abruptly relieved my back is to him and that the room is lit not by the daylight, but by the moon. I hold so very still, willing him to believe that I've just fallen asleep, because if he so much as wandered over and placed his hand on my forehead, he'd know something was wrong.

But then the door closes as quietly as it was opened, and I let out a shaky, relieved breath.

I wipe back the sweat on my forehead, letting out a gasp of pain as my insides jolt so many times fiercer than before. I bite down on my hand to hold in my cry of pain, squeezing my eyes shut as my heart beats like a rapid in my chest.

_It will go away_, I tell myself. _There's nothing wrong with me_, I will.

But then it creeps up my chest like a venomous snake, and floods its poison into my heart.

My teeth tear through the taut skin on my knuckles as unbidden tears streak out of the corner of my eyes, like when you're in so much pain they spring without any willing on your part.

I thrash my head against the pillow even as I curl around myself so tight, like a painful coil. Mumbling incoherencies I feel but don't hear, I wallow in the deep ache – drown in it, because I never learnt to swim.

And then –

Then the fuzzy edges in my vision clear and then –

He's here.

_Edward's here._

I can't really see him through the haze, but I just know.

_He's here_, I repeat. _He's here he's here he's here._

"Bella," he gasps, and in the next second he's by my side, his hands running over my skin.

And I can't hold in the sob of relief that is forcibly pulled out of me at the sudden swell of calm that spills over me like ink, spreading _out out out_ until it runs over my heart like a balm, settles the twisting in my stomach with a delicate drop of sweet honey.

"Shh," he whispers, and his hands tremble. "It's o-okay . . . "

Breathless, I reach for him, pulling until he falls down next to me. Instantaneously and simultaneously, our arms wind around each other so _hard_, and then we're so close we could melt away into each others skin if we wanted to.

"E-Edward," I stutter harshly, pushing my face into his clammy neck, my heart aligned with his. The sudden relenting of the pain has me shaking so hard my teeth chatter.

His hands are in my hair, on my back, my waist – up and down like a soothing circuit root. I curl myself into him now instead of myself, anchoring him to me with my fingers in his hair.

I feel his breath on my neck, his lips on my skin.

"I'm sorry, Bella," he whispers, a quiver in his voice. "I'm s-so sorry . . . "

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* * *

**A/N: :(**

**Hopefully, now these two will understand that avoidance really isn't the way to go...**

**See you soon!**


	20. Chapter 19: Touch, Tremble and Tell

**Chapter 19 – Touch, Tremble and Tell**

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Waking up the next morning is difficult.

Not because I'm weary from having so many nightmares – the kind that form one after another in rapid succession, or even the kind that just preserve so long you think they'll never end. It's not because I'm having trouble discerning reality from fantasy.

It's because I _want_ to; I want them to mix and muddle and blur until I can't tell if it's true or if it's false, because it all feels so good.

But everything ends.

A groan tears its way past my lips as my limbs stretch – my arm reaching across the bed before I know what for. My fingers curl on the mattress when I discover it empty, but still warm.

Suddenly recalling last night's pain, my hand darts down to my stomach, and then reaches for my heart . . . but there's nothing; not even the slightest twinge or ache reminding me of yesterday's turmoil.

_What was that?_

Blinking blearily against the light flooding the room, I take a minute to clear my vision. I focus on the little spots on my ceiling until they gain edges and points – until they become stars again.

I turn my head to check the time and –

My breath catches.

Of course I hadn't forgotten . . . but it takes my brain a moment to whir to life and provide me with what came after the pain, or rather, _who_.

"Hello," he says, quietly.

Edward is sitting in the rocking chair next to my bed. Having pulled it up to the side, his chin rests in his hands as he gazes at me.

I lick my dry lips and croak, "Hey."

This morning, his eyes aren't just one colour; they are a mix of clover green and glistening amber, as if the trees in the forest have somehow climbed their way up to the sun, or maybe they're just dancing with it in the early dawn.

His soft gaze touches my cheek, my neck. "How are you feeling?"

In response, I draw myself up gingerly – as if expecting the pain to startle me at any second – but it never comes. Leaning my back against the headboard, I say, "I'm okay." And it's the truth.

His eyes are part-way relief, part-way uncertainty.

"Edward," I say softly, and his eyes dart from where they'd been wandering over my skin – in concern, I imagine – back to mine. "I'm okay, really."

He nods slowly, leaning back in the chair until his hands pull through his hair. I have the sudden, strange urge to stop him, to tug his unrelenting fingers out and replace them with my own.

The unexpected want makes me yank my head back, so much so that it lets out a loud _thump_ when it hits the wall behind me.

An _ow_ can only fall from my lips before Edward is suddenly beside me, his hand on my cheek.

"Are you well?" he asks hurriedly, his eyes liquid as they run over me.

My breath catches at the unexpected contact. "Yeah," I breathe, my hand rising to rub the tender spot. "I just . . . hit my head."

His gaze rivets on mine and his other hand encompasses my own, his fingers spanning out and rubbing gently.

I stare up at him, unable to look away.

His look is all consuming, like he's trying to fall into the very depths of my soul. And for some reason I'm not frightened by it, I'm . . .

"Thanks," I whisper, feeling like if I talk too loud, I might shatter the delicate glass of protection that surrounds us.

His wings rise. I see orange in my peripheral a moment before I feel it brush my cheek, my neck.

He gives me a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

He says quietly, "I must apologise to you, Bella."

I frown at him. "Why?"

"I should not have left you yesterday."

My eyes widen. "Oh." But I understand _why_ he did. "That's okay." I hesitate before adding, "You were . . . upset?" Despite myself, my voice rises in pitch at the end, like I'm asking rather than stating. I feel sure of it, but at the same time, I'm hesitant to tell him how he felt, because in actuality I really _don't_ know.

His eyes grow round, like he's . . . surprised?

"Perhaps . . . but it is no excuse."

I draw my lip into my mouth, staring at him in confusion. "I don't understand."

He looks at me warily, pulling his hands back. His wings fall and droop over his shoulders again. "The pain you suffered last night." He falters, his words catching. "That was my fault."

He looks away.

I stare at him, shaking my head in denial even though he can't – _won't_ – see. "No, you didn't," I argue. "You were gone when it started."

His gaze remains fixed to the carpet. "That is _why_ it happened."

My browns furrow, half in indignation and half, surprisingly, in _anger_. "No," I say, louder than before. "You _stopped_ it."

"Bella," he says, finally lifting his eyes to mine, which are darkening by the minute – and so full of guilt. "If I had stayed then I would not have _needed_ to stop anything."

My head spins. I'm trying to make sense of what he's saying, but this seems too circular. I can't fathom his words, because he's never hurt me. And now he's claiming to be solely responsible for last night?

He slinks down off the bed, pressing his forehead against the mattress.

My heart aches at seeing him like this – like he's trying to be so small because his guilt is so large.

Carefully, I twist my body to the side until I'm sitting at the edge, cross legged and facing him. He doesn't look up at my movement, though I know he must hear it. For a moment I simply look at him; at the burnt orange tumbling down his back and pooling onto the carpet, the width and tilt of his shoulders, his hair – which is actually the same vibrant shade as his wings – softly colouring my pale purple bed.

Everything inside of me feels hushed and murmured as I reach out to touch him.

I feel the tremors go through him as I gently sink my fingers into his hair, running through it like I'm gliding through thick blades of grass, shivering so slightly in the wind.

My heart pounds vivaciously in my chest as I draw my ministrations out, letting the tips of my fingers go all the way down down down to his nape before drawing them back again. This is not accidental or him touching me.

This is _me_ touching _him_.

And it feels so deliberate.

I call his name then, because I still need to understand.

_Why does he think he's responsible? _

His head shifts a bit, but not completely, only so I can see his eyes. I'm relieved to find they're warm again.

"Will you explain it to me – please?"

He nods after a minute, but doesn't move from his position in front of me.

I restrain a smile as I watch his eyes flutter closed when my fingers makes another pass through his hair. I wish I knew where this sudden ease at touching was coming from. I had never before considered myself someone who sought to give physical affection so freely . . . but it was easier this way, I think. Easier than _receiving_ it, anyway.

Rather than leaning back and standing, he merely tilts his head to the side so he can speak without being muffled by the bed.

"The mating bond is finalised when . . . when the Zefdatrite is able to complete the first rest of their course. Their human has to be within the immediate vicinity for it to occur. And afterward, the bond is, at least for a while . . . _tender_. The effects of being away from one's mate so soon after completion can be very . . . adverse." From my side view, I watch his brow furrow, a grimace pull at the corner of his lips. "As you can now understand."

My mind reels, tumbling over a few key words: _first rest, their human, bond . . . _

He sighs; his breath giving way like something is pulling at him. "I had begun to doubt the connection was mutual, despite my teachings . . . I was under the impression that you would be fine if I left." His head turns abruptly then, back into the mattress, so when he next speaks, his words are muffled. "So I left."

Something dark and sickly creeps up my chest as I listen. _I was what had caused him to doubt – and then leave._

"I began to feel the physical effects not soon after, which prevented me from straying far, not that I had the intent to do so, anyway . . . but the pain only worsened the longer I kept away, but I still tried because I knew – "He breaks off, a silent tremor running through him. My hands push through his hair in earnest, trying to provide even a modicum of comfort.

"I had only intended to see you just once . . . but that was before I really _saw_ you." He finally, _finally_ glances up at me again.

His eyes are stormy – a dark, oily black clashing with a blue so cold it makes the fine hairs on my skin stand on end. They swirl rapidly, over and over, like a cyclone in the sea. And even the dark rim of his eyelashes are pulled in by the sheer ferocity of his gaze – tangled up and tipping down, creating a too soundless, completely starless sky.

He is_ devastating._

Suddenly unable to bear it anymore, my hands slip-slide down until they find his shoulders where I attempt to tug him up, but his eyes darken and he refuses. More than a little frustrated and a lot guilty, I drop my legs to the floor and attempt to sink down and meet _him_ instead, but his hands grab me before I can.

Winding his arms around my calves and pressing his forehead to my knees, his breath catches even before he begins speaking, like he has too little air and too many words.

"Had I known you would suffer such pain, I wouldn't have even _contemplated_ leaving. But I sincerely thought . . . " He trails off, shuddering again, his wings trembling so violently against the carpet-covered floor that they create a soft sound as his feathers brush against one another, completely at odds with his volatile gaze.

"I am sorry," he says finally, his voice so quiet it could be a whisper – but strained.

My heart throbs painfully in my chest, my hands tight and clammy against his shoulders. Everything he's said suddenly smoothes out in my mind, becoming as silent and still as a piece of fallen glass.

Because his guilt is so misplaced, and those jagged shards should be cutting me, not him.

"Please look at me." My voice is inflected with so many things that I'm not quite sure which is the one to get his gaze to snap up so sharpish, but I'm grateful for it.

My hands find his neck, his cheek, my thumbs falling onto the black under his eyes I hadn't noticed until now. "This isn't your fault," I say, so earnestly, so honestly. "_Please_ don't believe that. _Please_ don't feel guilty about any of this." Even as I say it, I know that it's more than my words can make out. A belief cannot be dismissed just because you want it to be, just as guilt cannot be cleansed in a matter of syllables.

But we only know this in _ourselves_; the desire for absolution in others is never-ending and unrelenting.

His eyebrows fall, his eyes blink wet. "But I _knew_," he says miserably. "I knew what would happen."

"No, you didn't," I insist softly. "You didn't because if you did, you wouldn't have left. You wouldn't feel so guilty about leaving now, and you wouldn't be telling me all of this, and saying sorry." My thumbs swirl and stroke, his eyes swirl and sway. "If you already knew then you wouldn't be _who you are_. And you're good, Edward." I catch a tear. "So good." I sink down onto the floor then, into the narrow space between the bed and him. "You would never hurt me."

I know all of this, even if I don't know how. But suddenly, it's as _incontrovertibly_ true as the sky is blue – as _universally_ true that a square has four sides.

My hearts _beat beat beats_ in my chest so quickly as I watch his lips part, his gaze glisten. He remains silent even as his eyes settle – black and blue being drawn away until they're that brilliant mix of green and amber again.

And so suddenly, his arms are around me. His forehead finds purchase on my shoulder as I feel more than see his wings move, encompassing me and leaving gentle tickles as they run over any skin on show. In return, I wind _my_ arms around his shoulders; sinking one hand into his hair and the other trailing gently down all of his burnt orange.

I can feel the heat radiating off of him like he's so full of fire, but in reality, it's the blood under his skin which is full of so much.

"Thank you," he whispers, over and over. "Thank you, thank you, _thank you_."

As the sun climbs higher into the sky outside, before clouding and pouring, the rain trembles from the grey and soothes the soil.

Inside, we mimic its pattern.

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* * *

**A/N: Yay for a super-duper-brilliant-at-resolving-the-situation-and-calming-Edward Bella!**

**Also, do any of you have a inclination toward either Bella or Edward's POV? Just curious, as Bella's is written in the present tense in first person, and Edward's is written in the past tense in third person. And of course, they think a bit differently. ;)**

**Also ALSO, I've posted a new story! It's called "Draw Me In" and is totally different from "Alone" in that it's genre is humour, but not so different in that it's Edward and Bella, and the romance is inevitable ;)**

**Phew! If you're still reading . . . thanks for reading!  
**

**See you soon!**


	21. Chapter 20: Sweetness Follows

**Chapter 20 – Sweetness Follows  
**

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Edward felt his heart swell to over twice its size as his human wrapped herself around him. There had been many instances where he'd touched her, but this time it felt . . . it felt _different_.

He breathed in shakily as he recalled yesterday's events . . . not quite believing he was able to be here now, and that Bella wasn't pushing him away, but pulling him _closer_.

After he had fled the previous day – teeming with grief at the prospect that his mate didn't feel as he did – he had ran and then flown, coming to a miserable stop when he realised that he couldn't go any farther, he didn't _want_ to.

He had dropped onto a tree branch, his head heavy and low as it fell into his hands. His fear about how he would be received had turned out not to be unfounded. He was just too different, too much to handle, or want.

His eyes watered, but he didn't know why.

_Mistaken_, she'd said. _You must be mistaken. _

But he'd never felt so sure of anything in his life. He'd never felt _so much_ in his life.

Before her.

Before Bella.

Everything had always been pre-decided, pre-destined for him, and he'd never thought to question it. It was the natural order, the way of all Zefdatrites and it was methodical and logical, and perhaps supreme to most species.

The only thing he'd ever had any _felt_ opinion on was that of the earth assignment. But he had understood its necessity. Their race was dying, and the only way to waylay, if not completely stop the effects, was to go to earth in order to reproduce.

It would have been so easy and logical to say that Bella was not a decision he had made – that she was pre-determined for him, too. And at first that was what he had done, what he had believed.

But now it seemed so easy to refute.

It wasn't merely that she was the best pairing for him because she would likely be inclined to produce the healthiest offspring _for_ him and _with_ him. It went deeper than outward flesh, and closer to something warm and brilliant than something cold and logical.

Edward wanted Bella.

But not for what the Zefdatrite said he should want her for.

For the first time in his life he had made a decision, which while complied with his reasoning for being on earth, did not comply with what he intended to do about it.

He missed his planet, but he would never be allowed to return.

Because he would not give them what they wanted.

But this revelation had been surprisingly easy to accept in comparison with Bella denying him. He felt the ache so intense that he thought he might fall from the tree and never be able to rise again. Each passing minute he sat there he grew more tired, more pained.

The bond had been secured when he'd slept with her, and now it was angry.

But he couldn't return. No matter how much it hurt he _mustn't_. He knew what would happen, but he would not force himself upon her. He was entirely at her whim, in her debt . . . and he would stay away, because he had seen it in her eyes.

_Pain_.

He had tried so hard not to hurt her, but he had still managed to do it.

He'd fled before she could tell him she didn't want him. He didn't think he could bear to hear it fall from her lips.

He'd known, and that was enough.

The hours had gone by in a blur – time had only passed like this for him once before, when he'd first fled from her. But this time it was much worse, not only because of the pain but because in the brief time he'd been allowed to be with her, he'd formed a deeper attachment in really being able to talk to her, to touch her.

He _missed_ Bella.

And it was this – not the persistent and growing pain – that forced him out of his hiding place and to her window.

As soon as his eyes took in her writhing form, he was inside.

Her name had fallen from his lips; a plea or a gasp or a groan as he _willed_ it not to be true, moments before he was beside her, more water in his eyes as his hands skated over her damp skin.

She was shaking and trembling and sweating as she pulled him to her, and he'd wound around her so _tightly_, burying is face in her neck and touching to sooth as he said he was sorry, so sorry.

He'd felt as her quivers faded away, leaving her smooth and soft and peaceful. Her breath was warm and even on his neck and her hands were still and relaxed in his hair. The pain she must have been experiencing – so many more times stronger than his own because her body was so much weaker than his – had abated because he was here, allowing her to finally fall asleep.

He should never have left.

He curled tighter around her, one of his wings rising to shield her body from the cold. In the dark, he whispered _sorry_ over and over again, his heart aching and his skin shaking even though the pain caused by the separation of their bond had faded hours ago. His trembles stemmed from a different kind of anguish, now. And, unable to quell them but unwilling to disturb his mate, he allowed himself one last bit of closeness before he pulled away, covering her with a couple of blankets and retreating to a chair next to her bedside.

Where he would wait all night.

He's pulled out of his reverie when a loud growl split the quiet.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he felt the sudden rise in temperature against his skin. He pulled back from Bella slowly, but she only pressed her face harder into his neck. His smile widened.

"You are hungry," he said gently, pleased that he was able to recognise her needs. His hands slid up her back to play with the ends of her hair, and he nosed the top of her head.

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug, and her cheeks grew hotter.

"Will you eat?"

He felt her sigh against his skin; her breath so warm. Pulling back, she looked up at him with cheeks dappled as red as a rose. He smiled in delight, bringing a hand from her hair to run a single finger down her skin. "Lovely," he murmured.

Her lip disappeared into her mouth, and she asked, "Are you okay?"

Startled, he blinked, more than once. Perhaps it was a logical question, considering how he was faring moments ago, but . . . but he _was_ okay, _now_. It was so strange, how her words should pacify him so much, her presence. He had thought that Jasper was the one who was always able to instil calm in him, and he was. But Jasper spoke to his rationality . . . while Bella spoke to his soul. His _heart_.

He was okay, because of her.

"Edward." Her hand on his cheek.

"I . . . I am well, Bella," he breathed, his gaze centred on hers, his skin warming because she was. "Truly. I am just . . . I am not used to being asked."

He watched her brows furrow, her lips dip. And then she lurched forward and hugged him again.

A laugh tumbled from his lips, his arms winding around her waist and hugging her back just as deeply. His eyes couldn't help but fall closed, his heart so full and beating so quickly. His smile was on her skin as he felt her eyelashes tickle his neck, and he just _felt_ . . .

"I'm sorry I hurt you." Her voice was a quiver, full of regret.

His heart tugged in response to her pain, and his lips fell. He clutched her closer, one hand running through her hair – as he recalled how soothing the motion had been when she'd done it for him – and the other pressed against her back to keep her close.

He had not once blamed her _during_ or _after_ his departure. He did not blame her now.

He wished she would not blame herself.

"You did not," he whispered, his lips falling onto her shoulder. "Please do not think that."

"I didn't want you to go," she whispered back, her fingers diving into his hair again. "I was just . . . I was just _scared_."

His lips paused, his head shifting the tiniest bit. He pulled back, and Bella let him.

His thumb ran under her eye as he asked, "You did not wish for me to leave?"

Her brown was warm, but wet. She took a deep breath. "No . . . it was just, just when you mentioned the reproduction – " her face glowed red then, " – and then . . . then the mating thing. I just felt a little . . . overwhelmed."

His eyes were wide, his mind was grasping for edges it could not find. "I thought . . . I thought _I_ was hurting you . . . I thought you didn't want to be . . . I thought you didn't _want_ – " His words were jumbled and muddled, slow and uncomprehending. "I thought you were going to say . . . "

Bella exhaled then, deeply, her breath stirring the fine hairs on his skin. She shook her head. "You were gone before I could say anything."

His mind didn't need to wander back, because he already knew it was true.

He had left before she could speak, because he had been _so sure_ . . .

"I am sorry," he said again, looking her sadly, because if he had just stayed and _listened_ . . . "I am so – "

Her hand covered his mouth then, stopping his words.

"No," she said firmly, her eyes narrowed. "No. _Stop_ apologising to me."

His mouth snapped shut under her palm. His eyes grew wide.

"I think – "she started, only to be cut off by her stomach once more. Her cheeks flushed red again, and a small groan left her mouth.

Since _his_ mouth was still covered, his hand moved in response instead; spanning over her abdomen. His palm only lightly pressed on the soft material covering her even softer skin, and his eyes were wide and pleading.

"I know," she said, a smile tugging up the corners of her lips as she looked down at his hand and then back up again. "Food."

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.

.

Edward sat on her soft bedding as he waited for her to return.

She had departed with the promise she would _be right back_. When she had risen, he'd tried to follow, but she said he had to stay up here in case her father was awake.

In truth, he had not considered this.

As he waited, he gazed around the room, having never really observed it unless Bella was within it, and then, well, he was only looking at her.

The whole room was pastel purple, a kind of colour which inspired calm rather than intense feeling. It was furnished sparsely, with a desk and shelves, and there were books everywhere – which made him smile – but there was something different about Bella's room to what he'd observed of the hallway, the kitchen.

There were no frames on her walls, no photographs.

And even though hers was the first home he'd ever been in – not including his abandoned house – and despite the fact that he had no idea what a normal room should entail, or comprise of, still. . .

He wondered why her walls were so bare.

Startled by a noise downstairs, his chin touched his chest and his ear tilted to the ground as he listened. They were the same noises he recalled hearing yesterday when she ate her "cereal." His shoulders had tensed rigidly, perhaps irrationally worried but unable to quell it. She was mere feet away. She was _okay_.

But this did not lessen his instinct to go to her.

He had learnt on his planet much about humans, though as he started to grow older, and more aware, he had often turned a blind ear to it all – something which he regretted doing now. But as he searched his mind now, he recalled hearing about the different types of relationships, which in some ways were similar to those on his planet, but in others, were vastly different.

They were prone to be unpredictable, fickle. They never formed a mating bond which was inherent in Zefdatrites, and often, they aborted their unborn children.

Bella had mentioned that she had been overwhelmed by exactly these two things: _the reproduction_ and _the mating thing._

Frowning, Edward refused to let himself dwell upon their differences and instead allowed a modicum of relief to seep through his skin as he realised he would be able to assuage her fear of one of these things at least, though he could not the other.

Besides, she had told him she _didn't want _him to leave.

His eyes drifted shut as he inhaled deeply; her scent was all over him. He could not remember when he had felt so content because of something he had breathed. Perhaps the smell of the trees or the midnight air, so clean as it coasted along the lake to meet him, but that was different. That was something shared, and he felt that this smell, that _Bella,_ was just for him.

He inhaled again, finding himself falling backwards onto the bed that was drenched in _Bella_. He lay on his side, his wings relaxed and puddled on her mattress and carpet as his nose found her pillow; he smelt her hair and her skin, her breath and her blush.

It lulled him.

But he did not sleep.

It took a moment for his eyes to open when her bedroom door did, and when _he_ did, she was sitting beside him, not touching, but smiling.

"I know you said you don't need the sustenance . . . but I brought you something, anyway." She held up her hand, showing him a plate filled with things of different sizes, shapes, textures _and_ smells. "Well . . . lots of things, I guess." Her cheeks grew pink. "Not cereal, though. You looked pretty, ah, distrustful of that yesterday."

His heart swelled again; twice its size.

"Thank you, Bella," he said gently, watching the red blossom on her skin.

She nodded quickly, setting the plate down on a table near her bedside. Hesitantly, she inched closer, reaching her hand out until her fingers were on his skin, soft and warm on the smudges under his eyes.

He sighed, feeling something inside of him settle.

"You, um, you said earlier . . . you mentioned something about the 'first rest of your course' . . . you meant sleep?"

"Yes," he replied, watching her closely.

"So you . . . you'd never _slept_ before . . . before the other night – with me?" Her eyes widened.

"I had not," he said.

"Oh." Her eyes grew even wider. But then after a beat a grimace twisted her lips, her eyebrows dropping into a furrow. "And then I freaked out on you, huh?" she said, softly, sadly. "The first time you _ever_ got to sleep."

Edward's eyes dipped in return. He remembered her telling him to let her go, but . . .

"You were afraid," he said, equally as soft, but insistent, and said as he did then, "I understand." Then, feeling a smile tickle at his lips, "And I enjoyed sleeping. I did not know what to expect . . . but it felt . . . " he trailed off, because he could not find a word to adequately describe that blissful sensation of slipping away, knowing Bella was tucked up against him, that she was safe in her sleep with him.

"But you didn't sleep last night," she stated, her gaze and her fingers passing over the tired skin under his eyes.

He hesitated. "I . . . I could not," he confessed, his eyes stricken. "Even though the pain was gone, peace would not come."

Her gaze smudged when she met his, and he knew that she understood.

Slowly, she shifted until she was lying horizontal next to him on the bed, pressing her body against his until every inch of him felt warm and relaxed. He himself did not move, not wanting to do anything that might send her away from him. But when her arms twined around his neck and sunk into his hair, he could not stop himself from submerging into her; winding his arms around her soft waist and pressing his face to her chest, where he could hear her heart.

He felt her lips in his hair as she whispered, "You can sleep."

And this time he didn't resist her lull. Instead, he allowed himself to fall into that blissful place of warmth, where Bella was tucked up against him, and safe.

.

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**A/N: Aww...**

**Thanks for responding to my question last chapter guys! There seems to be a 50/50 split... which is good, 'cause I'm gonna keep alternating between POV's, because I think it's beneficial to have two sides to the story... and they both have valuable, beautiful things to say/think (mostly about each other) ;) **

**I am really rubbish in the responding-to-reviews department, so please don't think I don't appreciate every single one. I keep them nice and safe and tucked up in a special little pocket in my heart.  
**

**See you soon! xoxo  
**


	22. Chapter 21: Not So Different

**Chapter 21 – Not So Different  
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I think if you're a parent, a sibling, or even an aunt or uncle, you at some point watch someone you love fall asleep. And it might fill you with a softness that quilts all your days woes, all your evenings sadness. All that's left is silence, but not so completely that you can't hear their breath grow gentle, or their heart start to slow.

And even though I didn't have any children, brothers, sisters, nephews or nieces to gaze upon as they drifted away, I thought I knew what it might be like, right now – to watch someone slip into peace.

In his sleep, I peer down at Edward and watch him dream.

.

.

.

"What is this?"

"A banana. It's a fruit."

My lips twitch as I watch Edward curiously poke and then pick up each piece of food laid out before him. He hadn't slept for long, but it had seemed to make a lot of difference.

Edward looks at the fruit curiously, his head turned to the side. His long fingers pluck and pull at its skin. Bafflement slowly encases his features as he gazes at me, hesitantly green.

Smiling, I gently take it from him. "You have to pull this part off," I say, peeling back the layers. "And eat the soft part inside." I hand him back the fruit, his fingers brushing against mine.

He looks at it warily, not moving it towards his mouth.

I bite my lip to hold in my smile, then reach across the distance and clasp my hand over his. I lean over and instead guide our hands towards me. When I take a bite, he watches my mouth curiously.

"It's good," I promise him.

Seemingly pacified by this, he slowly guides the banana to his mouth and takes a bite. His eyes light up when he does, changing from green to gold.

A smile tugs my lips up. "It's nice, huh?"

Swallowing, he nods slowly. "On my planet, we are sustained through injections and tablets. We have no need for food, though we were taught that humans require it for their sustenance . . . but it had always seemed so strange to me."

I listen with a rapt ear, unconsciously leaning closer. There are still so many things I don't know . . . so many things that are different that I _want_ to know about. "So you've never eaten, _ever_?"

He shakes his head.

My eyes widen slightly, and then I look down at the banana, suddenly looking quite pitiful in his hand. "We must seem so primitive to you," I say, and the words seem to ring with truth.

His eyes dip downwards, but not before I catch something dark and shameful flashing across them. "I used to think so . . . but now . . . " he trails off, looking back up at me through his inky eyelashes, his golden gaze searching. "Thinking that seems to lessen what you are, and you are not less than I am. We _are_ different, but I like that you sleep and eat so many different foods. I like your sounds and your softness and your transient colours." His eyes drift over to my cheeks, and I feel them heating in response to his words and gaze. "I like your hair." His gaze flitters downwards, following the strands all the way down to my waist. His hand drops the banana as he reaches out, curling the ends around his fingertips.

My cheeks redden further. "M-my hair?"

He nods, watching his fingers sift through the brown. "I had never seen hair this length, before you."

"Oh," I say, blinking. "Everyone on your planet has short hair?"

"Yes," he replies, his gaze following his fingers as they climb. "There are no females on my planet. You are the first I have ever encountered."

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but when they do, my mouth falls open in complete surprise. "_What_?"

His eyes dart to mine then, widening slightly when he sees my face. His fingers still in my hair so abruptly, like he's done something wrong. "You are . . . the first female I have encountered," he says hesitantly, his gaze dimming as he grows careful. "I'm – "

I quickly place my hand over my mouth to stop the apology I know is coming. I shake my head. "It's okay. You don't have to apologise, you didn't do anything wrong," I smile at him, and I feel him relax minutely. "I was just surprised. Like what you said before, it just . . . surprised me. It doesn't mean that you've said . . . it doesn't mean I want you to leave," I stumble, drawing my lip into my mouth like I've said too much.

His eyes grow buttery soft, and when I let my hand fall from his mouth, he quickly catches it up in his and gazes at me. "I won't leave," he promises.

My shoulders droop from where I'd unconsciously tensed them. "Okay," I breathe. "Good."

We're quiet for a minute, and then Edward asks, "You were surprised that there are no females on my planet?"

I nod.

"Because there is an almost equal division of males and females on earth," he surmises, his eyes asking.

I nod again, glad he can understand.

He watches me carefully, tipping my hand over and running his thumb across my vein. "I will explain," he says finally, his eyes earnest. "But you will tell me if it is too much?"

"I will," I reply, a little eagerly. Then I push the plate to the side and turn so I can lean my back against the bed, settling in. He follows my movement with curious eyes, then repositions himself so he's opposite me. He mimics my crossed legs so our knees are touching.

"You know we come to earth to . . . to reproduce," he beings, looking at me nervously. But I simply swallow down the bubbling anxiety at the word and nod for him to continue. "That is _because_ there are no females on our planet, therefore, all Zefdatrite children have human mothers."

"But that makes you half human," I interrupt, my eyes widening. Looking over him now, I should have probably realised this sooner, but I think my mind had been tipped over by other things.

"Yes," he says, and his lips quirk. "But our Zefdatrite genes are inherently dominant . . . though it does explain the similarity in our anatomy." He gestures between me and him before letting his eyes slide down my body, but it's not like he's leering at me, it's more . . . assessing? His eyes snap back to mine. "Though we are different, too."

I try to beat down my blush, but it's of no use. "But . . . but the children they had . . . they were all boys?"

He nods. "Every one."

My embarrassment morphs into perplexity. "But how is that possible?"

He hesitates. "I do not know, precisely . . . but I was taught that the fault lay in the human species, and not in ours."

I frown. "Why not just reproduce with another species then?"

"It has been tried," he says quietly. "But humans – you – are the only species which will bear our young. We have no choice." His eyes grasp mine, begging me to understand, the golden rays turning to rain. "It is the only way to sustain our race."

And then suddenly I can see every single moment between us, stretched and laid out before me; from the first moment I'd woken up in his house to now. Everything he said and I did, and all the searching looks that seemed like nothing but which meant everything.

My stomach twists as I realise than in those instances I had been witness to many things – I had seen his guilt and his sorrow, his curiosity and trepidation . . . but I don't think I'd ever really allowed myself to acknowledge his _sadness_.

But I can see it now. He _is_ sad.

And I wonder if he knows it.

"Bella, I want you to know," Edward says quietly, breaking through my thoughts. My eyes centre on his to see his already focused on mine. "I do not expect us to – to reproduce . . . I shall not, nor ever will I, try to force you to do this – to do anything . . . so please do not worry."

My heart gives a sharp little tug in my chest at his words, because he always seems to be thinking _of_ me in everything he does. For a moment, something like shame washes through my system, before I push it away and focus on him.

"But your planet, Edward," I say, voice small. "Your _people_. They'll all – " My breath catches, not wanting to say. Swallowing, I force out – "They'll all . . . die."

He smiles at me sadly, his eyes blue and dark but oddly . . . still. _Accepting_. "It is a losing battle with or without me – we are only perpetuating the inevitable."

Unexpectedly, water fills my eyes at his admission, at his glance. My hands clench tightly on my thighs, and before I can even consider what I'm saying, _offering_, I blurt out – "We can reproduce." _It's one thing_, I'm thinking. _One tiny thing. So small in comparison to what his species his fac_ing.

His eyes widen, and for a moment he doesn't move.

But then he shakes his head.

"Bella . . . " he breathes. "That – thank you for even caring enough to . . . but I . . . I won't let you." His eyes stretch across the space into mine, sharing his pain. "I can't – "

"But I'm _offering_," I interrupt, my voice quivering and my eyes blurring. "You're not . . . you're not _forcing_ me to do anything." I lift my arm to swipe away the wet on my cheeks. "You need to help your people. It's _hurting_ you, I can – "

I'm stopped by his hand covering my mouth, and I might smile at his mimicking if the matter weren't so serious. Instead, my watery eyes fix on his; sad to sad, grey to grey.

"Shh. Please do not cry," he whispers in a tremble, his hands moving to cup my cheeks, his thumbs running under my eyes. "It would be for nought, Bella, don't you see? We will continue dying just as the sun continues to set and the stars continue to burn. There is no way to stop this. And I will not lose you pointlessly." He inhales shakily and whispers, "I will try not to lose you ever."

I shake my head, lifting my hands to cover his. "But you – you want to help, even if it is inevitable, I _know_ you do, I – " I break off, every muscle in my body tense and tight and aching. "And I – I'm not going anywhere."

For a moment his eyes fall closed, and when they open again, they shiver blue and grey – pale and bleeding. "Our mothers, Bella," he says sadly, softly, and I stare up at him, my stomach drowning in thorns. "When I told you I'd never seen a female before . . . you never asked about them." His gaze spikes, his skin shivers. "Ask me now."

A thorn spears my heart. _I don't want to_, I think.

But in my silence, he finds his answer.

"They die," he whispers, voice almost gone, gaze on the carpet. "They _always_ die."

My fingers tighten around his, my heart flooding my mouth. The air around me suddenly seems choked full of fumes, and I gasp.

"I won't let you," he says suddenly, his eyes flying to mine; fingers trailing down my neck, a hand falling to my heart. "Not for them, and not for me. You're my home now, Bella, you're _it_. And I am truly sorry for any pain or stress I have caused you, and I am sorry that I cannot keep my distance, but only because I fear it unsettles you. I am sorry that I frequently overwhelm you with my words, and my touch. But I am _not_ sorry for denying them and saving you, because I _cannot_ live without you now. So please . . . please stop trying to make me."

His words glide along my flesh like fine silk before sinking into my pores, into my blood and bones. And I tremble against the force of his speech, the raw emotion in his eyes, the swirling and clashing and _care_.

Because I see his sadness for what it is now, and it isn't blind and it isn't acceptance.

It is lonely.

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**A/N: :(**

**Reading over this... I've just realised how intense these chapters can be. I hope that doesn't drive anyone away! We've made some leeway here though: Bella's made some realisations and we've gotten some more answers... so next chapter should be lighter. :)**

**Also, there was a massive surge in traffic on this story last chapter, and it just about bowled me over! So, thank you!**

**Thank you for reading. :) See you soon!**


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